


Dragon Age Camp NaNoWriMo April

by IncreasingLight



Series: In Their Blood [13]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Baby stories, Bards, Childhood Sweethearts, Delayed revenge, First Time, Growing Up, Mages, Multi, One Word Prompts, Young Love, political reform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 13:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 23,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncreasingLight/pseuds/IncreasingLight
Summary: I've decided to give this a shot.  I need to work on staying within short word limits, and want to work more on my original characters.Those of you who loved my OC Pippa in Asta's After are going to love this month.  It's not all about her, and the timeline jumps around a little, but there's a lot about her.Thanks to my beta for this, SerenityFalconNormandy!  I know I'm going to fall behind, but I'll give it my best shot.





	1. Bloom

It had been a long time since the Rutherfords had spent a full winter in Ferelden. The short days stretched into frostbitten weeks, and then into icebound months while they were trapped inside for all but the so-called ‘nice days’.

Today was not a ‘nice day’. It was blowing a small gale, shrieking around the eaves, drifting what little snow remained into hard-packed hills.

For Pippa Rutherford, newly 19, and used to spending the chillier months in more temperate climes, the Void was preferable.

Tyra had made it her winter’s work to torment and plague her older sister. Ian, now a broody young man who wanted nothing to do with his embarrassing and heretical family, had shut himself away with his musical instruments at the end of Harvestmere, emerging only for meals and the occasional spat with his father.

Pippa kicked at the hard-frozen ground that should have thawed three weeks ago. She clutched her winter cloak a little tighter around her shoulders and then shrugged it off deliberately.

She was sick of the damn thing.

“Put your cloak back on,” her Mum – that diabolical sixth sense telling her that a so-called child was doing something foolish, no doubt – poked her head out of her office door. “You’ll turn into a Pip-sicle.”

Despite herself, the corner of her mouth turned up. “I’d rather be a Pip-sicle than wear this damn itchy thing another minute,” she declared, and tossed it at Asta, who caught it with her prosthesis.  “You wear it, if you’re so worried.”

Her Mum’s eyes were lined, small spectacles perched on the edge. “Pippa, I know it’s difficult…”

Pippa didn’t want to hear it. “You needed time to work on your book.”

Asta pressed her lips together, “Yes, but you’re old enough now to want to be elsewhere. You know Dorian would adore having you to…”

“He’s too busy being Archon to worry about me. Besides,” Pippa grinned, “Auntie Mae wouldn’t be able to resist marrying me off.  And I hate how muggy Tevinter is in the summer months.”

“Winter won’t last forever.”

“It just seems like it does,” Pippa rolled her neck. “I’m going for a walk.  I just need to break out of here for a bit.  Maybe visit Auntie Roz and Uncle Krem.”

Asta tossed back her cloak. “I know you’d rather burn it than wear it this time of year, but… for your Da’s sake.  He’ll scold if you aren’t bundled up.”

Pippa pulled a face but threw the hood over her slightly pointed ears. “Yes, Mum.”  They grinned at each other.  “I’ll be back for dinner.”

“No worries if you aren’t,” Asta called out. “You can take care of yourself.”

Contradictory, how much she longed for, and yet hated how independent her Mum would let her be. She waved to her grandfather Trevelyan as he argued with the gardener over some crucial setting for the kitchen garden.  She didn’t want to plot gardens today. Not when the wind was stirring up all the pent-up restlessness in her blood.

She crested the last hill before the forest, and with one last glance behind her, bolted. At the bottom of the hill, she swirled the Fade around and drew herself through and out again, until she stood at the very edge of the forest.

“Damn.” She spun, magic blooming at her fingertips, ready to guard and defend herself. “Pippa?  Pippa Rutherford?”

“Soren McMillan?” She let the magic drift away.  “I thought you’d moved to Denerim, to join the Guard?”  He’d left two years ago, hadn’t he?

“I did,” the young man stammered, flushing. He wore a sword at his hip, his arms were bulky, even under his too-light tunic and cloak.  “I came for Wintersend – my sister’s expecting, and I thought I’d come for the birth.”

“I wish her joy.” Pippa had never managed to make many friends with the children in the village – most long since grown up to be the magically intolerant people she come to expect of the majority of Fereldans.  Soren had been different.

“I’ll tell her so.” He shifted, holding his hilt in a manner that reminded her of her Da.  “How long are you here this time?”

She shrugged, “Mum’s writing another book. Months, yet, before we leave.  You?”

“Bairn’s due any time,” he grinned, “My team caught a whole crew of slavers trying to work out of the alienage, shut them down for good. I’m on extended leave for a job well done.  Mind you, there'll be five times as much when I get back.”

“Congratulations.” She faced the woods, unsure how to extricate herself.  “What are you doing out here, though?”

“Looking for elfroot.” He snorted, and corrected, “Nothing’s clean enough for my sister, now that she’s nesting full-time.  It was driving me insane, all the mothering.  I’m used to being on my own.  I figured I’d find a clearing, do some exercises, try to keep fit.  Harder than it looks, with them cramming food into me every other second.  You?”

“Same.” She drew herself up short, and then smiled, “My sister is irritating, my brother is singing the Chant over and over again just to annoy Mum, and Da’s arthritis is acting up – but he doesn’t want to admit it, so he’s just snapping at everyone.”  She rolled her eyes, “I’m not used to being… confined, this time of year.”

“Do you want some company?”

Pippa blinked at him. “I…” she’d come out here to be alone.  “I’d like that.  I think.”  The words surprised her.

“So would I.”

“You said that.” Her mouth turned up at the edges, ever so slightly.

“So I did,” he grinned again, wider, and offered an arm. “Come on, there’s got to be some elfroot in here somewhere, right?”

“What about your training?” She took his arm, warm and firm to the touch.

“Plenty of time for that, when the loveliest lady in the village isn’t looking for company.” He colored, “I mean…”

Pippa just laughed, “That doesn’t say much for the rest of the village.”

“Perhaps it does.”


	2. Read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after 'Bloom'.

“What are you reading?”

“The Chant.”  Pippa deliberately flipped a page, hoping the young man would get the hint.

“Maker, why?” Soren settled next to her, hands behind his head, comfortable in a way she would never be on the still chilly and damp Fereldan moss.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Denerim?”  His mother had certainly insinuated as much, when she ran into her at the market.  There was no point in dragging out a flirtation.

“Not for two more weeks.”

“Ah.” Pippa tried to focus on the page in front of her.  It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to being dismissed and lied to – but Soren hadn’t done it before.

“Why the Chant? I thought you had all the books and scrolls in the world up in your fancy manor.  There has to be something more interesting than that up there, right?”

“You’re thinking of Minrathous,” she contradicted, and then narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if she dared tell the truth.  “My Mum has a theory that the Chant is a spell, and that if enough mages cast it, it would change something big.”

Soren blinked, but didn’t make the sign of the sword.  “Is that good?”

“Might be.”

“Have you tried?”

Pippa poked him with her metal bookmark, “Do you go sticking your sword into things without knowing what’s on the other side?”

He winked, “Only if they ask nicely.”

Pippa snorted, despite herself.  “Charming,” she turned up her nose.  “And no.  You don’t cast spells without understanding what they do first.  That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Well, hoity-toity Ms. godlike smartypants,” the man sassed back.  “What does your Mum think it does?”

“Save the world, perhaps.”

“From what?”

Pippa laid down the book – borrowed from Ian who was going through a religious phase – without bothering to mark her page.  “Would you believe me if I told you?”

“I’d believe anything you told me.”

That shouldn’t have made her blush.  She ignored her response, focusing on his eyes.  Such a rich brown-green… she blinked and shook herself slightly.  “So… the Elven Creators were real people.  Not gods, just really powerful mages, flaws and all.”

“Shit,” Soren leaned up on one arm.  “Scary.”

“You have no idea,” she laughed, and touched his nose, gently with the bookmark. “My Mum met one, when she was the Inquisitor.  I met him, too.”

“You have the most interesting life.”

Pippa snorted again, “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Maybe, if there were other girls.”  He grinned, and she shoved him so that he fell over onto his back.  “Go on.  I’m not running for my Mam yet.”

“You know about the Veil?”

“It keeps the Fade on the other side.”

“It’s ripped, and ripping, constantly,” Pippa ran her fingers along the side of the Chant.  “Mum used to be able to close it, but then she lost that ability, with her arm.  She thinks that maybe the Chant is what brought it up in the first place.  That maybe, if the spell is cast again…”

“Then we should do it, right?”

“There’s also the chance that casting it will rip the entire thing to shreds, and destroy the world in the process,” Pippa finished, trying not to look at him.  “Elves would survive – Thedas was theirs to begin with.  But the rest of us?”

“You’re half-elf, right?”

“Probably.”

“What about you?  Would you…” There was a sudden line of concern between his eyebrows, deep and grooved, that belied his age.

“Soren, are you worried about me?”

“Maybe,” He plucked a blade of new grass, and then whistled with it for a few moments before going on.  “I know you’re a crazy powerful mage, who never needed no Circle, but…”

“Any Circle,” Pippa corrected.

“And you’re fucking educated,” he grinned irrepressibly.  “But I’m allowed to worry about a friend, right?”

Pippa looked down at the Chant, and at her knees.  His mother had told her she would tell him a friend had asked about him.  Being a friend was a good thing.  It wasn’t like she had a lot of them.

“I’m in the habit – I’ve been worrying since you were like, 13.”  Her face snapped around to see him, beet-red and stammering.  “I know it’s stupid – I’m just this hick Fereldan, and you’re… you.  All powerful and zappy.”

She giggled.  Friends, definitely.  “I worried about you too, when I heard you were going to Denerim.  It’s a dangerous city.  I know you can take care of yourself, but...”

“I might not go back.”

“What?”

He shrugged, “I… don’t know yet.  Guard work is good work, but they aren’t all good people in that city.  I hate seeing people suffer, and not be able to do anything.  If I help in the way they need it, I can’t send money home to Mam, and if I don’t help, I feel guilty.  The Sisters up there say just to give them money, or to think about being a Templar, but I don’t wanna take lyrium – I’ve seen the ones your Da works with.  What else could I do?  Soldiering?”  He shrugged, “The King’s the king – you know him, I know you do.  I love Ferelden, but I don’t wanna die for it.”

Pippa narrowed her eyes at him.  “Come on.”  She stood up and brushed off her trousers.

“Where are we going?”

“To talk to Mum,” she grinned and pulled on his hand.  “Don’t say you don’t want to meet her.”

“Does this mean you’ve decided I’m serious?”

“You’re never serious.”

“Pippa.”  Soren stopped, dragging her progress to a halt, “You really have no idea?”

“I will if you tell me.”

He put on a serious face, his tones deepening.  “Well, Ms. Rutherford, when a man and a woman like each other very much…”

Pippa tried to shake his hand free.  “Knock it off.  I don’t like being made fun of.”

“I’m courting you, Pippa.  Trying, anyway.  I’ve… never done this before.”  His smile wobbled.  “I’ll happily meet your Mam, and your Da, but…” he shrugged, “It’s just… have you never thought about it?”

Pippa took a step backward, “Soren, I’m a mage.  So are my sister, and my brother.”

“And your Da’s an ex-Templar.  And your Mum writes dirty books that get banned by the Chantry.”  He sniffed.  “It’s you I care about.  Do you think you could care about me, or not?”

“Mum doesn’t write dirty books!”

He tried to let go of her hand.  “I just… I’ll go back to Denerim, then.  It was just… worth a shot, you know?  When I heard you were here for the winter.”

“Soren,” Pippa had to keep him there, until her head stopped spinning, “You came home… for me?”

“I got the time off, just like I said, but…” his eyes were dark as he stepped closer.  “Pip…”

She pulled back but didn’t let go of his hand.  “Come on, Soren.”  She tugged at him, glancing over her shoulder.  “Come meet Mum.”  He resisted, so she stepped closer, whispering into his ear, “My sister has been spying on us this whole time.  I don’t want an audience.  Do you?”

His surprised smile was the only answer she needed.


	3. Devotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This short features Ian Rutherford, Asta and Cullen's son. He makes questionable choices that his parents don't necessarily approve of. He's a teenager, they do that. He plays his music too loud, has found religion where his mother least approves, and wants to work for Leliana.
> 
> He also refuses to cut his hair, which drives Cullen crazy.
> 
> Teenagers - can't live with them, can't kill them.

The constant droning from the room above grated on Asta’s ears.  She’d tried stopping them with wax, but her darling son seemed to know when she was doing just that – moving on to one of the many instruments that littered his room to attempt to render the Chant most effectively in a very high-pitched whine that pierced her eardrums, or pounding the cadence of the words out on percussion instruments.

His work was valid, she repeated to herself, staring up at the rafters of the room as the Chant grew louder.  He was experimenting with casting the Chant via music – and it did seem as if in some cases music amplified the effectivity, judging by the notes Pippa had supplied her with.  He was perhaps closer than any of them to unlocking the mystery behind the ancient words...

But did it have to echo the way it did, right down to her bones?

It made her missing arm ache, the rhythm to the words, the pattern in the language.  Occasionally he’d reach a crescendo and the whole house would shake, plaster raining down onto her worktable and ruining her ink.  They would have to get a plasterer in to patch the lot, at this rate.

Cullen ducked his head in.  “Morning, love.  Tea?”

“How can you handle this?”  She snapped as he shoved the tray across to her.

“At least this canticle is short?”  He shrugged, and then winced when their son reached a drawn out note.  “And he has perfect pitch?”  He rubbed his greying temples, “It does hurt my head a bit, though.  Tyra took off for the woods with your father – said something about hunting rabbits.  And you know Pippa can sleep through anything.”

Asta groaned, and laid her head down on the desk.  “I wish I could leave.  I’m so close to breaking through, though.  If only the noise would stop.”

“It could,” Cullen proffered a letter through two fingers.

“Ian’s acceptance to University?”  Her eyes, crinkled at the edges, peeked over her arms.  “It’s time for him to leave the nest, isn’t it?”

Cullen shrugged, sad.  “I suppose.  He’s old enough, certainly.”

“Cullen,” Asta pulled him down into the chair next to her.  “You two have been fighting nearly constantly for months.”

“I just don’t like to see him make the same mistakes I did,” her husband grumbled, and tightened his fingers around hers.  “He’s so damn determined to join the Chantry.  And even with all of Leliana’s reforms…”

“He won’t be a Templar.”

“He’ll be a brother.  A mage brother,” Cullen’s forehead, lined and tense, relaxed.  “There are worse fates.  We worked for this, for Chantry inclusion – who are we to say he can’t take advantage of it?”

Asta leaned against him.  “Maybe he’ll choose University instead.  He can still study the Chant there.”  She sighed, “When I think of how much I begged Father and Mother to send me there, to let me leave the Chantry…”

Cullen shook his head.  “The last fight we had was about that.  He’s been corresponding with Leliana.  She’s set aside a place for him, and there’s a reason he’s been working on his music.  I think she’s grooming him for spywork.”

“Well, shit.”

“You said it.”  Cullen kissed her head.  “He has to walk his own path.  Learn his own lessons.  We can’t guide him in this.  I’ll just say a few extra Chants in my devotions this evening.”

“I suppose it could be worse,” she muttered.

“How?”

“He might have decided to join the Circle.”  The droning dropped off, and then started up again just as her shoulders relaxed.  “Maker, when will it end?”

Cullen kissed her forehead, “After you decide you’ll miss it.”

Asta smiled, weakly, “Of course I will.”  They both waited, but the music didn’t end.  “Oh, well, it was worth a try.”


	4. Unease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to give each one word prompt at least two meanings in the short. I hope I'm succeeding!

Ellie watched from the corner, stomach twisting itself into knots.

Soren was with that girl again, if you could call her that.  That foreign, mage girl that lived up in the New House with the Inquisitor and Commander.  They called her their daughter, but everyone knew she wasn’t theirs, not really.  She didn’t look anything like the man she called Da.

It wasn’t right, bringing some half elf Rivaini girl into South Reach and expecting everyone to just… accept her.

Soren liked her too much.  Ellie schooled her face so her scowl wouldn’t cause wrinkles, and stepped out to confront them both.  “Why, Guard McMillian!”  She made her eyes wider, “and Mistress Rutherford!  What a surprise!”

“Ellie.”

“I’m just on my way to the market,” she smiled, deep enough to make her dimples show, and twisted her arms to support her breasts, just to deepen her cleavage.  “I don’t suppose either of you is headed that direction?  I’d love some company.”

The mage frowned at her, and turned away, not even bothering to say ‘hello’.  “I’m not.  I’ll see you later, Soren.”  No great loss – the invitation wasn’t meant for her, anyway.

“Sorry, Elle,” Soren excused himself, “I’m headed up to Argyll myself.  I have an appointment with the Commander.”

Ellie dropped the act, “The Commander?  Whatever for?”

“He’s offered to teach me a few things.  Help me stay alive when I get back to Denerim.”

“Well, you’ve always been impressive,” she fluttered her eyelashes.  “Even more lately, aye?”

The mage girl rolled her eyes.  “I’m going, Soren, if you’re coming.”

“Later, Ellie,” Soren waved and ran a few steps to catch up.

Ellie watched them crest the hill, lips pressed tight together.  The way Soren looked at her – like she was a person, not just a wrong thing… like she was an attractive woman, not just some too-dark, wild-haired half-elf bastard.

Was he only interested in her because of her high connections?  She’d heard the old Lord Trevelyan had claimed her as his granddaughter – and that she’d refused the title, for some Maker-forsaken reason.  Who wouldn’t want to be a Lady, with the land and riches and what all that went with it, instead of just a trumped up…

She didn’t like the way he looked at the mage.  Before she showed up, and worked her claws into Soren, he’d had eyes for other people.  And now, even though the Rutherfords were hardly ever there, he couldn’t stay away, or settle down.  Instead, Soren had headed for the city.

Ellie had made her plans.  She’d meant to be going back with him, but he would barely greet her in the street.  It wasn’t fair, that after years of traveling, suddenly the Inquisitor had decided to stay home for the winter.  It wasn’t right.  It was her turn, wasn’t it?  It wasn’t as if the mage was interested…

But the way he was looking at the mage… leaning in like that as if they were already…

It might just be physical – to read those Orlesian novels that the girls’ passed around, Circles were just one big orgy.  Maybe all mages were like that.

But… he was kissing her.  Ellie backed up, until her back hit the wagon behind her. 

The mage girl was kissing him back.  Like she meant it.

It was too late, after all.

  ***

Pippa resisted glancing back at the other girl.  “Soren… is she still staring?”

“Oh, probably.  Ellie never figured out that jealousy is unattractive.”

“Oh, because I have so much to be jealous of,” Pippa snarked.

“You do,” Soren bumped her arm.  “Fancy house, pretty clothes, a title you were free to turn down, getting to travel all over the world.  Ellie’s got nothing to look forward to but getting older.”

Pippa bit off.  “It’s you she’s staring at.  She wants you, not me or my life.”

“I’m spoken for.”

“Oh?”  Pippa tried to keep her voice light, “Some girl in Denerim?”

“Closer to home, at least part of the time.  She’s out of my league though.”

“I doubt that,” Pippa tried not to hold her breath.  “If it’s the girl I’m thinking of, she’s nobody special.”

“On the contrary,” Soren took her hand.  “She’s as special as it gets.”

Pippa’s neck crawled, “Soren, you’re not going to kiss me while she’s looking, are you?”

“What’s to hide, Pip?”

“I’m a mage.”

“And you have two lips like everybody else.”  His eyes twinkled as he bent in.  “So let her stare.”


	5. Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place before 'Unease'.

The door pounded in the middle of the night, shaking on its metal hinges, echoing through the quiet of the halls.  “Hello, the House!”

Cullen stumbled to the door, jerking it open impatiently.  “What on Thedas…” he stared at the young man who stood shivering in thin pants and a nightshirt.  “Soren?  What’s wrong?”

“It’s my sister.  The babe’s turned wrong.  My mam sent me to fetch you – said you had healers…”

“Of course,” that was Minaeve, standing behind him, Petri at her back.  “I’ll fetch my bag.  Commander, can Pippa assist?”

“I’ll wake her, immediately,” Cullen rubbed his face, and made his way up the stairs, trying not to think about how hard it was to wake up at a moment’s notice.  He wasn’t getting old, dammit.  Not yet.  “Pippa,” he rapped on her door only once before it opened.

His daughter was already dressed and wrapping her hair back into a kerchief. “I heard, Da.  My friends…”

Cullen nodded, “Be careful?”

“Soren won’t let anyone hurt me.”  She squeezed his wrist.  “And Minaeve will be there as well.”

The three of them walked-not-quite-ran down to the village proper, taking side streets to make their way to Soren’s sister’s home.  He opened the door without knocking and wailing poured out into the street.  His mother embraced him, “Soren…”

“Is it… too late?”

“Let me through!”  Mineave snapped and barged through to the bedroom.  “Pippa!”

Pippa followed, to see the pale body of the woman laying on the bed.  “She’s…” It wasn’t her first dead body, not even the most gruesome.  But it was a harsh lesson to see…

“Maybe not,” Minaeve was concentrating, “Use the protocols I taught you last week.  Power up and…”

Pippa jumped in, using force magic to compress the woman’s chest, and move air in and out of the lungs, as Minaeve struggled to deliver the babe.  Soren’s sister took a gasping breath, and Pippa jumped back, surprised at her success.  “Excellent!”  Minaeve pulled the forceps from her bag and grasped the baby’s emerging head.  “Keep her alive while I get the child out.”

It was a battle unlike she’d ever experienced, fighting for the life of mother and child.  The baby delivered, Minaeve handed off the healthy child, pink and squalling, to wrap up and deliver to the grandmama.  Pippa handed the girl off, noting Soren’s tears.  “Is my sister…”

“Lives,” she breathed, and went back to the trenches.  Minaeve was struggling to stop the hemorrhage.  She applied pressure, channeling healing power, as the placenta was removed, and the womb cleansed.

Limp and cramping with exhaustion, they finally exited the chamber, hours later.  “She’s alive.”  Minaeve was always so blunt.  “She’ll live, if you have her take these,” she handed off four vials, ‘For the next few days.  One a day, after she feeds the baby.”  She blinked at the family.  “For the Maker’s sake, what are you standing around for?  Take her the baby!”

Soren’s mother threw her arms around her, as Soren’s brother in law scrambled to obey.  “You saved her, my precious girl!”  Minaeve fended her off, with only a little scowl.  In lieu of another target, she embraced Pippa, instead.  “I was so worried, with all those mage children up the hill, without any real Templars in sight, but you’re all right, you are,” the woman sobbed, and drew back from Pippa, “Soren, you have my blessing.  She’s a good girl, this is.  Don’t let her get away.”

Pippa colored, and stammered, “Thank you…”

“Walk her home,” the woman ordered her son.  “I’m going to be with Darrah.”  She wiped away her tears.  “I won’t hear a word against any of you, ever again.  You saved their lives.”  She squeezed their arms.  “Now go get some sleep.”  She winked.  “Girls your age shouldn’t be up so late without a good reason.  Don’t rush home, Soren.”

Minaeve had already left them both behind, muttering about bed and a long bath.

“So…” Soren began, eyes twinkling in the torchlight.  “My Mam loves you.”

Pippa snorted, “At least until the rumors start that we brought her daughter back from the dead, possessed by a demon.  I mean, I did spend my first few years being trained by a ‘Vint necromancer, in part.”

“Won’t happen as long as I’m here,” he sounded so confident.

“Um… you can’t stay forever.”

He laughed, “I can if I join CARROT.”

“WHAT?”  Her feet stopped, dead in the road.  “How?  Why?”

“I’ve got a bit of studying to do, it’s true,” he searched her face.  “I’d be the most ignorant member ever, I know, but… it seems like what I’m looking for.  At least in part.  Your Da says there’s a salary, though it’s less than what I make in Denerim.  But there’s another perk.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I want to be with you,” Soren took her hands, and set them on his chest.  “I know we haven’t talked about it – but if you’re going to keep traveling off to Maker knows where, I have to figure out how I can go with you.  We’ll never have a chance otherwise.”

“We?”

“We are a ‘we’, Pip.”  His eyes were sad, “Aren’t we?”

“I… I guess we are.”  Her throat was tight, her voice squeaky.  “But we’ve never even…” she glanced down at her clothes.  “But that will have to wait.”

“Why?”

She glared at him.  “I’m not having you kiss me while being covered with dubious fluids.  I don’t care if it worked for the Queen of Ferelden.”

“The Queen…” Soren shook his head, “You know, I don’t want to know.”

“Good.”  She pulled away, “Now, take me home.”

“Mine or yours?”

She shoved him but took his arm the very next second.  “Mine.  I know where the baths are there.”


	6. Empty and Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I combined two prompts to this one, because they both fit so well.
> 
> Less of the next generation, more Asta. We haven't heard from her for a while.

The house was too quiet. Asta roamed the halls, seeing the ghosts of her babies, hearing the echoes of laughter, and fights, and tears. Seeing the history of their little family in the pictures on the walls.

There was the stain on the plaster in the hall where Tyra had painted as a toddler, and none of the trained mages in the household had been able to get rid of it. It had bled through every layer of paint they’d applied. It still made her youngest daughter laugh, when she saw it. The baby had claimed it was a dog. A massive dog, with six eyes.

Tyra wouldn’t laugh at it any more. She had left with her grandfather the day before to learn how to be a ‘fucking lady’ in Ostwick – newly minted as his heir, now that Ian had taken his vows. She would set the Marches on their heels, no doubt, their red-headed baby girl. It was about time.

Asta traced the scar where an angry teenage Ian had thrown that damn ugly vase and shattered it, before announcing he was joining the Chantry and leaving forever. The family scars had healed, but they’d left the mark in the wall, all the same. It reminded her that parents couldn’t make choices for their children. They’d had to decide that they loved their son and supported him in everything – even when it didn’t match their own beliefs.

She peeked in her boy’s room – filled to the brim with instruments and scrolls of music, both common and divine. He was such an intelligent lad – they’d wanted different things for him, but he knew what was best.

His last letter hinted that he had a lover – a nice man, devout, with an excellent singing voice. Asta hoped it lasted – Ian had been a solitary sort of child, completely unlike Tyra, with a friend in every city they’d ever visited. She just wanted him to be happy - and preferably not alone.

A dog slunk around the corner, whining pitifully – one of the last litter, that for the first time had taken a liking to her. Cullen had beamed, proud that she’d finally proven herself a Fereldan at heart, if not by birth, by being chosen by one of the mabaris they’d been raising for decades. Amaryllis was old by mabari standards now. “Like me, I suppose,” she half laughed, half mourned. The bitch leaned up against her comfortably. “I’m all right, Amy. Everyone gets old.”

Even CARROT’s full time staff was gone - Petri and Minaeve were visiting Lady Cerastes, with their four children. Cullen was visiting Bran – no doubt planning to stay up all night playing chess and drinking cheap ale with him and his nephews. Dagna and Sera were on an extended trip to Nevarra - for reasons she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.

Asta couldn’t remember the last time the house had been this empty. “I am not lonely,” she announced aloud. “It’s just never been so quiet.”

A cat – half grown – curled around her ankles, directing her down the stairs to the kitchen. “Has no one fed you?” It wasn’t talking to yourself if you addressed an animal, right? “Of course, I should have gone insane long before now.”

She stopped halfway, looking into Pippa’s room and stepping inside at last, to prolong the connection with her eldest. Staffs leaned against the wall, half-written spells to keep Tyra from invading her space littered her desk, as well as one to prevent… Asta flushed, and covered the page with a book. She shouldn’t snoop. But she was relieved she was taking care of herself.

Pippa was finally coming into her own, with a young husband who thought the world of her. It had been a long time coming – his family still wasn’t friendly with their household, though they liked Pippa well enough. And she was happier in Antiva than she ever had been in Ferelden – the milder winters, and relative ease of travel making a huge difference to her state of mind. Asta didn’t like to admit it, but she had worried about her for years – she wasn’t interested in University, despite her excellent mind and strength as a mage. Instead, it was her husband who’d surprised everyone with becoming a scholar, as soon as given an opportunity to learn. He’d come to it late, but enthusiastically.

He was another son to them now.

The cats’ dishes were full, but Amy whined at her, and so, rolling her eyes, she pulled a treat from the larder, and gave it to her. The mabari crumpled to the ground beneath the table, and Asta settled in to watch her. She couldn’t even bring herself to make a cup of tea – the whistle would be too loud.

“We built the house too large,” she told the dog. “We should have thought about them growing up and moving on. We don’t need all this space.”

The outbuildings – where the convalescing Templars lived – had candles in the windows, and she could have gone and visited. Many of them enjoyed the distraction from their cravings – just as her husband had, so long ago.

But though the house was empty, the ghosts still welcomed her.

It felt like any minute a five year old Tyra would come giggling into the kitchen to show off a particularly warty toad, claiming it was a village child. Or perhaps Ian would start practicing his fiddle in the parlor – his early days of playing made the instrument sound like it was shrieking profanity as he learned to wield the bow. “It’s a violin, Mum,” he’d corrected too many times to count. Or maybe it would be Pippa, somehow managing not to run into walls while her nose was constantly in a book?

She covered her mouth with her hands. How was it possible to miss them so much?

There was a step in the hall, and she hurried to wipe her eyes. “Love?” Her husband, older than she remembered from the memories playing behind her eyes, and rueful. “What’s wrong?”

She laughed away her tears, “Just missing the babies. It’s so…” she didn't have to finish.

He laughed, “Funny.” He smirked, and turned her chin up to look her in the eye. “I was thinking empty was good. In fact, I came home early to enjoy it with you.”

“How…” Asta stopped, and then smiled. “Commander, I like how your mind works.”

He offered his arm. “Care to retire to our chamber, Milady Inquisitor?”

“I’d be delighted.” But instead of taking his arm, she slapped his ass, and took off, slower than she used to be, but still faster than him with aching knees. “Last one there has to light the fire.”


	7. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strictly speaking, this is tomorrow's, but I try really hard not to break my rule about posting on weekends. Otherwise I get lost in words and my family never sees me.
> 
> That said, I have a rare Saturday morning alone, so I'm going to get this out there.

“Just relax already!”  Soren laughed, holding Pippa’s hands loosely.  “You know how to do this.”

“But I’ve never done it here,” she hissed.  “Private balls, absolutely, but…” Her younger sister whirled by with a village girl, her red hair flying loose of its braid and shrieking with laughter.  Pippa’s face darkened.  “How can she take this so lightly?”

“Because it’s supposed to be fun, not a punishment?  And private balls are so much less scary than a dance in the village square.” Her - something, Maker knew what she could call him - laughed down at her, taking the bite out of his sarcasm.  “Relax.  Follow me.  Unless you want to lead?”

“No,” she was terrified at the very thought.  “But…”

“Hush and listen to the music.”  The song was lively, the banners of the holiday flying merrily, distracted, she didn’t even realize that they’d stepped out into the wild whirling.  “So… did you make me a bouquet?”

“Did I what?!”  She snapped back to attention, not noting her feet for a moment.  “Why would I…”

“I’m supposed to chase you down and get the kiss, if you have,” he rumbled in her ear.  Pippa saw her brother, fiddling for all he was worth with the rest of the village band, giving the drummers a run for their money.  “I was hoping you had.”

It hadn’t even occurred to her.  She blushed, miserably, “Did someone else?”

“Nope.”  He whirled her around.  “I think all of South Reach has figured out the way the land lies.”

She snorted, too aware of the general opinion of Argyll’s mage children.  “Have they now?”

“Just look at you,” he was holding her tight again.  “You put them all to shame, magical girl.”

“You’re such a flirt.”  She relaxed, despite herself, enjoying the excuse to be so close to him in public.

“Only with you.”

She hated that she knew that was true, so she scowled, and then laughed as he flung her over his shoulder, boots up and ass in the air.  “What, are you an Avvar now?  I didn’t even give you flowers.”

“They don’t know that,” He marched outside the village, and leaned her up against a birch tree, bracing himself over her head and panting, “Would carrying you off work?”  He leaned in further and pressed his hot forehead against hers.  “Pip… I don’t suppose…”

“Pippa!”  That was Ian, scowling as he hunted them down.  “Where’d you run off to?  Mum and Da are looking everywhere.”

She pulled away, reluctantly, but drew Soren with her.  “Coming.”

Ian eyed him suspiciously, “They didn’t ask for him.”

“He’s mine, he’s coming with me.  You interrupt our dance-“

“Oh, is that what you call snogging up against a tree?”

“-you have to deal with the-” she hesitated for only a moment before saying, “…suitor.”  It was a stilted word for what they were, but the rest sounded juvenile, or would have her mother sharpening her daggers.  “And we weren’t snogging.”

“Yet.”  Soren’s fingers tightened on hers, and she squeezed back.  At least he hadn’t taken offense by the title. 

“Look, it’s not like I wanted to chase you down.  I was having fun too,” Ian complained.  “Improv is amazing, when you have skilled performers.  Auntie Josie really followed through on her promise.”

“What do they need us for, anyway?”

Ian grinned, his whole face changing, “It seems Divine Victoria has decided to crash the party.”

“Well, shit.” 

“Pippa!”

“You like her, fine, but I trust her about as far as I can throw her.”  Soren coughed behind her.  “What’s she want with us?”

Ian’s eyes sparkled, “Me, apparently.”  He seemed happier than she’d seen him in years.  “She wants to take me back to Val Royeaux.”  Pippa stared at his hands, shaking on his violin.  He was so excited.  “This is my chance.”

Everything was going to change.

But it already had, hadn’t it?


	8. Foreign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change. I should have known I'd be unable to keep myself from writing smut.  
> There's no smut here - but there will be, in a few days.

“She’s not from around here, son,” Soren’s father warned while rubbing leather soap into the saddle he’d used today.  “Those Rivaini women – they’re fast.  Don’t get drawn in.  What about that Ellie, now, she’s a steady one, with eyes for you.”

“I’m not interested in Ellie, Da,” Soren repeated for the thousandth time.  “Pippa’s more Marcher than Rivaini, anyway.  You’ve met her granddad.”

“Aye, he was a very nice man.  But still a noble,” the nobility seemed to be more of an issue than the country of her birth.  “You don’t want to be put in a position where your woman has more money than you.”

“Why the Void not?  Might be nice to be taken care of, for a change, wouldn’t it?” Soren snarked back, brushing the plowhorse a little more firmly than necessary.  “And she’s not as rich as they seem.  Her parents-“

“Those aren’t her parents,” his dad warned darkly.  “I heard her mother was some sort of Seer, and her father was an elf.”

“The Inquisitor and Commander raised her,” Soren’s smile – while still present - was tense.  “She calls them her parents.  They love her like parents.  She loves them like parents.  They are her parents.”  He met his father’s eyes over the horse.  “So she’s not like us.  That just makes her exciting, Da.  Special.”

“…I done heard tales about desire demons.”

“Nothing but jealousy, probably.  They aren’t as common as people seem to think.” He bent back to his work.  “You could talk to her, Da.  You’ll see then.”

“It’s not our place to be… associating with the likes of them.”  His father hoisted the saddle he’d been polishing up to the top of the gate.  “We weren’t born to it.”

“The Commander was born in Honnleath.  On a farm smaller than ours.  Pippa’s told me all about it.  And he’s a decent man, besides.”

His father shook his head, “I just don’t want you to set your heart on a lass that’s not going to be here next season.  You know how they get around.”  The silence drew out for a bit, before his father muttered, “You could just bed her, if you want her that bad.”  He didn’t dare look at him.

“You didn’t raise me like that.  And her father would run me through, if he even suspected.”  Soren wrapped up the chore and hung up the brush.  “I’m not that kind of man, even if she was that kind of girl.”  He suspected she was more experienced than he – but they hadn’t really talked about it.  It didn’t matter, if they wanted the same thing.  Maker, he hoped she wanted the same thing.  That was the whole reason for this outing, after all.  “I’d better get going, if I’m going to make it in time for dinner.  I was asked especially.”

“Hmm, well, your mother would tell you to mind your manners, and get on with it,” His father rumbled.  “I can’t stop you.  You’ve always been a stubborn git.”

“Taking after you, Da.”  Soren finished the mucking out, laid down new straw, and tried not to feel guilty about how much he was hiding.  He hadn’t lied, exactly.  He just didn’t say that the Commander was traveling to Amaranthine with Pippa’s mother and younger siblings this week to see Ian off.  He carefully did not say that no one in her family would be home but her. 

A necessary deception, he figured, as he rode up the hill to her home, heart pounding.

She met him at the door and immediately pulled him up the stairs.  “Petri’s in the library,” she warned, sotto voice.  “But he’ll leave us alone and won’t tell anyone.  Tevinter rules.”  She stopped at a closed door, biting her lip, and then smiling, opened it behind her.  “Come in?”

It was a lovely room – a huge window with a balcony letting in the evening sunshine.  Her dark hair lit up with red, highlighted with the colors of the sunset in its twisted curls, as she backed away.

The door swung shut behind him, clicking softly shut.  “I told my parents I was staying over so that your father and I could get up early and train.”

“How’d they take it?”  He couldn’t take his eyes off her, the way she glowed, the way she moved.

“My Da told me just to sleep with you and get it over with.”

Her face froze, “Is that what’s happening?”

“Not if you kick me out now.  Or if you kick me out… afterward.”  Soren took her hands, gently.  “This has never been a fling for me, Pip.  I’ve loved you since I first saw you skipping through the village with your Mum, talking a mile a minute.  I’m not going anywhere unless you make me.”

She nodded.  “I… know.”  That didn’t seem to reassure her.  He wasn’t sure why.

“And here my Da told me Rivaini women were fast.”  That hit a nerve.  She stuck her tongue out, and Soren caught it in a kiss.

It took a minute of lovely warring before she melted into his arms.  “I want to be with you,” she breathed into his mouth.

“That’s what I want, too.”  His heart hammered in his chest. Was this it?

“Then…” she pulled back to the bed and sat down.  “What are you waiting for?”

“I’ve only ever been waiting for you to catch up, magical girl.”

“I wish you’d quit calling me that.”  Her nose was even cuter when she wrinkled it.  “And I was the one always leaving.”

“I call it like I see it, Pip.”

“Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you off.”

Her tone was casual, but her face told another story, flushed and worried.  “It’s all right.”  He stroked her ear, and she shivered.  “If you don’t want to…”

She rolled her eyes, “Not the problem, Soren.”  She swallowed, seeming on the verge of something important.  “Um… so… I hate to bring my Uncle Bull into here, but… we need to talk before we do anything.”  The words rushed out of her in a gush.  “Mages can do weird shit.”  He couldn’t help but laugh at her.  She scowled back.  “I’m serious.  My Uncle Dorian lit some curtains on fire once in the middle of a ball.”

Soren shrugged, “You can put it out again.  It’s your room, after all.”

She rolled her head back, to stare at the ceiling.  “Again, not the problem.  I could… burn you.  Or freeze something.  Or shock you.  Or pile a ton of Fade rocks on you out of nowhere.  If I lose control.”

His breath caught, but he grinned.  “See, I knew you were dangerous.”

“I am.”  Her voice shrank.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Soren swallowed, but reached a fist behind his neck to shrug out of his jerkin.  “Look at me, Pip.”

She glanced, and flushed.  He pointed to various scars .  “I’ve been hurt before.  You were there when I broke my arm going over that fence.”  She’d held it in traction while her brother ran for the house.  “You won’t kill me, right?”

“Probably not.”  She hesitated, “Especially if… I use a little.  During?  If I deplete the mana instead of holding back...”

Soren just grinned.  “Now we’re talking.”

“Wait - you - want…” she lifted an eyebrow, looking more like her father than an adopted child had any right to.  “All right then.”  She took a deep breath, and then smiled, honest and excited, “Let me show you some real magic.”


	9. Crown

Ty stared at the circlet on the table.

It was shiny.  So very, very shiny, gleaming with an inner light from somewhere-not-here, like the glow she always saw in her dreams.  She reached out, with one finger, to touch it.  It was cold and felt like the magic sister practiced with, the kind she kept trying to get to do what she wanted but couldn’t manage.  Not yet, anyway.

She would catch up to sister one day.

“It’s enchanted against theft,” the tall man with the nice crinkly eyes and almost-as-good-as-Da’s hair told her.  “Go on, touch it.  It won’t hurt you unless you intend to keep it.”

She lifted it – a dead weight in her hands, and she frowned, plucking mentally at the spells surrounding it.  The crown pinged and got heavier.

She smiled, triumphant, and handed it back.  “It won’t hurt anyone now.”

“What did you…” the metal shone a little duller, and the man laughed, putting the circlet back on his head.  “Ouch.  It’s even more uncomfortable.  What did you do?”

Ty grinned a little wider.  “Took things apart.”

“I can see that.”  Her Mum came in with a tray of sticky rolls and cheese, placing them before the nice man.  She looked like she’d been talking to Auntie Josie again, but not in a happy way.  “Your daughter managed to break a 200 year old enchantment on my crown, Inquisitor.”

“She did what, now?”  Mum’s face went pale, and Ty hid behind the nice man who laughed when she broke things.  “You’re not in trouble, Tyra.  I just didn’t know you could do that.”

Ty didn’t quite believe her.  “It was old and worn out.”  She peered out, “Someone could do a better job now that it’s gone.  Auntie Dagna, maybe?”

“We’ll have her look at it,” Mum agreed.

She seemed calm enough.  “You sure I’m not in trouble?”

“Depends,” Mum raised an eyebrow, “Do you do this often?”

“Only when Auntie gives me a lock puzzle.”  She turned back to the nice man, and belatedly remembered he was the King.  He was nice, for a King.  “I like puzzles.  And painting.  And sweets.”

Her Mum shoved the dish of sweet rolls at her, and she took one, savoring the gooey topping.  “I really don’t know what I’ll do with you, baby.”  Ty drooped, but her Mum held out her arms, so she crawled into her lap.  The king’s eyes crinkled even more.  “I suppose we’d better find you an outlet before we find every enchantment in the house in pieces.”

“I have a stash of chests we’ve lost the keys for, if she needs the practice.”

“Can you do your puzzles without magic?”  Her Mum asked her seriously.  Like she was a grown up, or something.  Ty shook her head, disappointed that she couldn’t say yes.  “I guess we’d better get Auntie Sera to give you a few lessons then, if her wife is going to encourage this.”  She groaned, loudly and dramatically.  “Your father is going to…”

The King chuckled, “She has a gift.  Cullen will know how to use it effectively.  Having someone to break locks and enchantments is worth your daughter’s weight in gold.”

“I hope so,” Mum cuddled her closer, and she leaned up against her chest.  “This one just loves trouble.”

Ty couldn’t argue with that.  But it had taken almost all of her energy to manage this time.  Her eyes grew heavy, and she closed them, roll squished, forgotten in her fingers. 

And dreamt about locks.


	10. First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is mildly NSFW. Nothing explicit, but it's the reason for the rating change.

It wasn’t Pippa’s first time.

That had gone to a sweet-talking Tevinter heir, one that Uncle Dorian had warned her about but had looked like fun anyway.  So she’d ignored the soon-to-be Archon’s warnings, and met up with him.  It hadn’t been bad – but she didn’t like the way he’d bragged to his friends about the conquest afterward, so she hadn’t repeated the experience.  There were no troublesome feelings of remorse, or elation, or disappointment.  It hadn’t been about love or even attraction – only experimentation. 

It was what it was.  He’d been an opportunity, nothing more.  And she didn’t believe in virginity.  Just one of many reasons why she would have made a horrible Lady Trevelyan.

Uncle Dorian had made it clear that the other apprentices would want to sleep with her, if they liked girls – that she’d been seen as exotic, not for her coloring, as she passed easily for Tevinter born - but because she was a Southerner and a Dreamer.  So she’d been prepared – and maybe even a little eager, to see what it was like to be wanted that way.

Really, her only regret was that she hadn’t demanded more personal attention at the time, drawn out the experience, discovered her personal preferences.  The orgasm the young man had provided had been mediocre, at best – no doubt due to the overconfidence common to Tevinter noble youths.

Uncle Dorian had warned her about that, too.  He was the best, in every way.

Her second time was with a slightly older scout, just outside the temple of Solasan.  Mother and Father were busy, and the kids were napping away the heat of the day.  And she was bored, and there was literally nothing else going on for miles unless she wanted to translate Elvhen.

She was sick of Elvhen.

And there was all that fresh witherstalk begging to be used before it dried out.  So between the two of them, they’d used it.  Enough to make her mother wonder if it was being overharvested when she couldn’t find any for her own uses.  Her father had looked at her side-eyed, but let it go.  She’d been plenty old enough by then to know what she was doing, and to choose who she wanted to do it with.

The scout was nice, but a bit spooked by magic.  She’d had to hold back, so that he wouldn’t get scared.  It was still good sex, over all.  She came out of the season knowing what she liked, and didn’t, and had a notion of things she’d like to try, given a chance and the right partner.  Uncle Bull had helped her narrow them down to a concise list, with definitions and precautions necessary, as well as a few ways to make sure consent was enthusiastically agreed to.  Said list was currently laying on the floor under the bed.

A bed that the right partner was currently sprawled upon, breathing harder and sweating more than the cool temperature of the room indicated.  Because of her.

He  _ had _ been a virgin – apparently saving himself for her, of all the stupid things - but after the last three hours, you could safely say that outdated concept could no longer be applied.  She was incredibly satisfied with her work, watching him recover underneath her.

Soren had never been afraid of her.  He’d begged her to trail heat up his thighs with her fingers, to kiss his neck with ice-cooled lips, to spark lightning where he touched her.  His only reaction was to encourage her to climb over him so that he could reach more of her, see more of her.

She’d been very careful with him, every step of the way.

He was no mage, but he worked his own spell on her body.  His litany of praise could have summoned a desire demon, she was positive.  His mouth pumped blood through her veins faster than any healer or potion could manage.  His breath on her skin was life itself.  He offered the rest of his throat when she nipped him tentatively, and he’d whispered, hopefully, “Harder?”

He scared her a little bit, with his awe-filled eyes.  When he murmured how long he’d wanted this.  With his declarations of love, and protestations of her beauty, and the strength of his hard-won muscles when she asked him to switch positions for a little while.

And with the way he whispered how he never wanted to let her go.

It frightened her, how much she wanted the same thing.  His presence, his support, his unwavering acceptance.  He gave her control – and allowed her to let go at the same time.

She hadn’t been this scared since she’d first met her Da and Mum, worried that they weren’t going to take her with them.  That she’d be left behind with the Sisters again, alone.  She was so afraid that he’d bolt with the first touch of the Fade on his skin.

But Soren offered his heart like Josie offered tiny cakes and favors.

And so, she gave hers back – and finally let him in.

The ice on the bedsheets made him squeal like a baby nug when it met his bare skin.  But he’d wrapped them up in it the next minute, so that she couldn’t run away.  He was nervous, she realized almost too late, despite all evidence to the contrary, that she’d leave him alone, that she didn’t believe he meant any of the pretty words and precious moments they’d just shared.

The ice melted, soon enough, leaving them both damp, and sticky, and limp with pleasure.  Languid, he draped himself across her chest, kissing the side of her breast.  That was all he could reach.  “Maker have mercy.”

“He’s pretty unmerciful,” she said without thinking.  Soren had that effect on her.

He only snorted, “Blasphemer.”  But he levered himself over her, grinning like a freckled fool.  “Kiss me again with that dirty mouth.”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed, and did, heating him up from the inside, just like Princess Hawke had described, in depth, during her last visit.  ‘Just in case,” the Champion had said, with a wink.

“Shit,” he breathed a minute later.  “You… I…”

“I love you, Soren McMillian,” she whispered, staring him straight in the eye.

It was the first time she’d ever beaten him to a confession.  He flushed and fell onto her, arms giving out, face buried in her neck.  “And I, you, Phillippa Rutherford.”

“You’re crushing me.”

“Likewise.”  He groaned and rolled them both over.  “Say it again.”


	11. Heartbeat

The sound woke her up in the grey pre-dawn light.  A soft whooshing, ba-wish, ba-wish, ba-wish.

“Do you hear that?”  She whispered to her husband.

“No.”  He was never at his best in the middle of the night.  “Tell your friends to shut up already and let you sleep.”

“It’s not…” but he was already out again.  She nudged him with her foot under the covers, not quite a kick, but he just snored, pointedly.  “You’re horrible,” she hissed at him.

The crankiness of his false snores made her realize – she wasn’t hearing the noise with her ears.

She sat, cross-legged in the bed, careless about the fact that she was kneeing Soren in the back.  He only mumbled and rolled over a little, to get away from her pointed joint.

He deserved it.

It had to be magical.  Soren had less magic than a nug, after all.  He’d demanded to be tested and failed miserably.  He’d dedicated himself to other pursuits, after that.  Muscle training, hand to hand fighting…

And scholarship.

He was old for University, but he’d taken to it like a fish to water – diving in and flopping around in different topics like he couldn’t breathe without knowing everything.  He’d spent the last four years learning everything he could about magic without being able to practice it – just to talk about it with her.  Auntie Dagna had supervised – but flatly refused to let him try enchanting.  “I think Pip likes your brain where it is,” she told him, and handed him a set of rune designs to try to improve instead.

He’d just gotten back from Orlais after six months of field work with Professeur Serault.  He came home even more freckled and glowing every time he spoke about dragons.  Pippa had to admit his enthusiasm was sexy.  Uncle Bull agreed, and gotten them both very, very drunk.

She was overly distracted by Soren’s presence, and shifted deeper into her meditations, listening.

The sound was still there – louder when she concentrated.  It was a tiny spark – a wisp of something impossibly little.  Her friends were aware of it, she realized, and were amplifying it so she could ‘hear’ it.  So that she’d know.

It… was part of her.  She jerked herself out of the meditations, gripping the sheets with her fists.  “Shit,” she whispered.

“What?”  Soren was awake, serious now that something was obviously wrong.  “Pip?  Pip, what’s happened?  What’s wrong?”

“I…” could she tell him?  Would he believe her?  He always said he’d believe anything she told him… “How’s your weird-o-meter at 3 in the morning?”

“…It’s in the green zone?”  He rubbed his face.  “A magic thing, then?”

“The most,” she breathed, and grabbed his hand to cover her navel.  “Soren…”

His hand touched the bare skin, and stroked it, eyes flying to her face in the semi-darkness.  “Oh.”  He grinned, “Is that all?”  He rolled his eyes.  “Pip, don’t tell me you didn’t think it would happen.”

She whacked him, “Ass.” 

His fingers, showing the lie to his irreverence, stroked a little lower, spreading out.  “Are you happy?”

It wasn’t exactly planned, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t known better.  It was hard to get witherstalk, or the ingredients for anti-pregnancy runes in Antiva.  She laid back down, letting him bend over her.  “I… think so?”

“It’s a shock?”

“Definitely,” she reached up her arms, and he came down to meet her.  “Mum is going to explode.”

“Sounds messy,” he teased, kissing her neck.  “Maybe we should tell your Da first.”

“Or your parents?”

“Anything but that.  Let’s just show up with Junior the next time we visit.  That way Mam won’t find a reason to move to Antiva for the duration.  Or forever.  She’d love it here – she’d go all but naked, all the time.”

Her breasts shook as she tried to laugh silently.  Their rooms here had the thinnest walls, and they had to sleep with the windows open just to get enough breeze to rest.  “You’re awful.”

“Do you feel sick?”

“No.”  She rolled over to snuggle closer.  “Maybe I will later, though.”

“I’ll take care of you.”  He was too sweet, nuzzling at her breasts.  “Anything you need, Pip.”

“Just you, like always.”  His mouth caught hers all at once, as if he was overcome with the fact that she needed him.  “I thought you were tired?”

“Oh, right,” he broke away all at once, slithered around her like a garden snake, a hand still on her breast, and a moment later was snoring.  She nudged him.

He kept snoring.  “Soren…”

He mumbled, unintelligible.

“Soren, quit faking and make love to me.”

His body shook with laughter, trying to make the snorts sound like sleeping.

“You’re such a brat.”

“Better hope the baby takes after you, then.  Go to sleep, Pip.  I’ll make love to you in the morning.”

She fell asleep with the heartbeat of the unknown still thudding in her ears.


	12. Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'll get three of these today, since I don't post on weekends. And it starts a mini story arc that involves Ian, Asta and Cullen's son.
> 
> He's hard for me to write, but he stretches me. Just remember - just because I'm writing this character doesn't mean that I agree with everything they say.

Cullen glared at his son, “What did you say?”  He stepped forward, looming into his space.  “You call your mother dedicating her life in service to Thedas ‘nothing’?”  He fisted his hands, willing himself not to touch the young man in anger.  “Apologize to your mother.”

“I won’t,” he lifted his chin, his eyes, so like his father’s, as hard as topaz.  “I’m right.  If she wanted to make a real difference, she could have kept the Inquisition as part of the Chantry.  I’ve read the history, I’ve written to Divine Victoria.  I know the truth – Mother was given the option of having real help, instead of this cobbled together group of misfit researchers.  She should have seen who the Maker was ages before she put two and two together.  She knew about the threat from the Qun and hid it from the Council.  She could have done more!”

Asta was in the corner of the sofa, hand over her prosthesis.  Silent.

“What more could she give than her arm?”  Cullen spat.

“Everything!”  Ian expostulated.  “We could be in touch with Solas.  We could know more about what comes next, what he’s planning, how we can stabilize things.  We could find out the truth about the Golden City – even the Blight!  We could have had  _ resources _ .”

“The Inquisition was corrupt.  She had to break away, end things.  There were spies everywhere.”

“Spies work both ways, father.”  Ian sneered.  “Mother was a spy, wasn’t she?  Not classically trained, of course, but adequate, by all accounts…”

“Your mother is a scholar first, and always has been.”  His voice was deadly quiet.  “She fought because she must, not for the prestige.  Barding is not glamourous, whatever lies Divine Victoria has been feeding you.”

“And then she quit because she  _ wanted _ to.”

“We’re allowed to do things because we want them!”  Cullen slammed his fist into the wall, too angry to say another word.

The vase slammed into the wall, shattering into a hundred pieces.  “Just because you hate the Chantry doesn’t mean the Maker doesn’t exist!  You know he exists!  And he’s our best hope at saving the world – that or the Chant.  And you two won’t do anything about it but write books and talk about whether things are better now!”

From her corner Asta rose, approaching her husband and son gently, “Cullen, he’s right.”

“No, he’s not.”  Cullen’s lip curled.  “He’s a spoiled little shit who has no idea what we went through, trying to save the world for him.”

“No, he isn’t.”  His Asta was crying, shaking her head, “I could have done it, and I didn’t.  I wouldn’t.  I was full of ideals – so were you.  Just like him, now.”

“I’m not idealistic,” their son sneered.  “I’m realistic.  Realistic enough to know that CARROT isn’t worth a shit.”

“You watch your language, pup…” Cullen warned.

“Or what?” Ian lifted his eyebrow, and let his fingers spark with magic, mana pooling in the palm.  “You don’t take lyrium.  You can’t silence me,  _ Commander _ .” __ He made the title an epithet.  “I’m done with this place,” he said, backing away.  “I’m going with the Divine.  She can use me, she said.”

“That’s exactly what she’ll do,” Asta warned, her voice weak.  “Ian… we’ve only tried to do the right thing.”

“Then you’ve failed at this, just like everything else.  You made a lousy Sister, and a lousy Inquisitor, and lousy parent,” Ian shrugged, and turned away.  “I’m going to spend the night at the Chantry.  I’ll write when I reach Val Royeaux.”

Asta reached out for him, “Don’t leave like this, Ian.  Please.”

He did stop, for just a second.  “I have to go, Mum.  I’m not sorry.”

And then he disappeared, only pausing to grab his violin case before stepping out of the house and their lives.

Cullen was left to hold his wife as she wept for her son.  “I pray to Holy Andraste that he doesn’t regret his choices.” He murmured at last, picking her up and carrying her upstairs.  “Let him not repeat my mistakes.”


	13. Villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second short of the day - there should be one more, but it will post later, because it hasn't been betaed yet.

Madame de Fer, Grand Enchanter of the Circle of Mages, didn’t look like a villain.

She looked like a perfectly poised, well-aged woman – about as far as he could get from his short mop of a mother as possible.  She dressed with a precision that Ian envied – suddenly hating his simple robes and scratched up weapon, however well-made.

Her eyes looked down her nose at him, but they weren’t unkind – just distant.  “That staff is Dagna’s work, isn’t it?”  She held out her hand and he could do nothing but hand it over.

He might as well have been a bug in the presence of a dragon.

If Ty were here, she’d have slipped something nasty into her smalls drawer, Ian realized.  But he’d never seen things the way his family had.  Pippa was too often in her own head, Ty was too passionate about everything unfair, his mother walked around muttering about the Veil and Maker with her fingers perpetually stained with ink, his father…

He didn’t want to think about his father.

“I suppose the Most Holy told you I knew your mother.”  Madame de Fer sniffed.  “She was necessary, once upon a time.  Thedas owes the Inquisition a great deal.”

Divine Victoria had warned him about her – but she was the only option left, if he wanted to learn how to become a Knight Enchanter.  “She doesn’t normally take apprentices, but…” Leliana had paused, then, before finishing, “Maybe she would make an exception for you.”

He didn’t want this position based on his parents.  He wasn’t interested in nepotism.  He wanted to earn her regard.

He worked for months, slaving for her – in personal matters as well as magical.  He built muscle and lost weight – the last of his baby fat melting away into a build far more like his father’s than he wanted to admit.  Madame seemed pleased with his progress – she took him shopping, advised him on grooming himself for the job he wanted.  “Some day, my dear, you might even be Grand Enchanter.  You certainly  have the talent for it.”

It all went so well, until the day that he found the diary.

He hated the fact that his mother couldn’t go into a home without picking through their correspondence.  He hated it more that she’d bestowed the dubious nosiness gene upon him – though it had paid off already at a few social functions.  But this little book was guarded with magic – and his little sister had taught him a few tricks.  He cast one of her special dispels and opened it.

Ten pages later, he was horrified.

Vivienne entered, and he stood, like she’d taught him to.  “Grand Enchanter.”  He didn’t bother dropping the book.

He couldn’t tell that she was blushing, but she did hold herself a little stiffer.  “I see you take after your mother after all.”  She sighed, “And you were doing so well.”

“You burned my grandfather’s estate.”

“A misunderstanding, darling.”

“How can you be so calm?”

“It was years ago.”

“I had cousins that died in that fire.”

“I know.”  She didn’t even apologize.  “An unfortunate incident.”

“How did it happen?”  Perhaps there was an explanation…

“We were tracing the Skyhold fire – a trail that led back to your grandmother.  You wouldn’t have met her, of course, but they wanted to bring Philippa home, take her from the Inquisitor and Commander.  And I… I wanted her to be my apprentice.”  Vivienne strolled languidly over to the window, touching the curtains gently.  “She was completely unsuitable, but I didn’t know that at the time.  A Dreamer, imagine!  She needed training, as much as the Circle needed the open backing of the former Inquisitor to regain any footing in the wake of the Rebellion.”  She turned.  “Your mother refused, and… so the Chantry - and the Circle - took steps.”

“Divine Victoria ordered…” he couldn’t reconcile the sweet, if devious, woman with such an act.

“No, darling, I did!  I was the Right Hand, at the time.”  Vivienne shook her head – always so gracefully.  “Tit for tat, my dear.  After all your hard work you know how the Game works.”

“You killed my grandmother.  You killed children.  You took everyone my grandfather cared about and wiped them out.”  He choked, gripping the book a little tighter.

“Not everyone.”  Was there even a touch of regret?  “I was removed from my post when the Divine learned the truth – but the Circle wasn’t tied to the Chantry any longer, so I remain Grand Enchanter.”  She shrugged, “I’m sorry for your loss – but you were barely an infant, my dear.  It couldn’t have impacted you that much.”

Ian lifted the book and shook it at her.  “Why didn’t you code it – were you that confident that your wards couldn’t be picked like a cheap lock?  My baby sister could have had it open in two minutes – it took me five.”

She smiled, somehow satisfied.  “I do believe that you’re ready.”

“What?”  He was confused by the change of subject.

Vivienne picked up a bell and rang it.  “Consider it… a Harrowing, if you will.  You passed, with flying colors.”  Her eyes flashed, “Now you’re ready for the Game.”

Ian shook himself, striding to the door, “I’m never coming back here, Vivienne.”

“Of course not.  You’ve graduated.  With flying colors.  You, my dear, will do the Chantry – and the Circle – credit.”  She turned to her writing desk.  “I’ll let Leliana know to expect you.”

Thinking again, he turned back to her, and backhanded her across her cheek.

Unfazed, Vivienne lifted her own hand to touch it.  “Ah, yes, and there’s your father.”  She seemed absurdly pleased.

“Go to the Void, Vivienne.”

He left, unsure where his feet would take him.


	14. Hero

Ian had wanted so many things.  He’d thought it would be – if not easy, than at least worthwhile to work for them.

Everyone had tried to warn him.  Auntie Josie.  His mother.  Auntie Sera and Auntie Dagna.  Even his father.

He didn’t want to think about his father.

When he was little, his father had been his hero.  Larger than life, carrying him around to tend the dogs, and visit the sick Templars that had become both his passion and his form of penace.  He could do no wrong in little Ian’s eyes.

And then he’d read the _Tale of the Champion._

And he’d realized his father used to think he wasn’t a person.  All his little pet names, ‘pup’, ‘little hero’, ‘little man’… they meant nothing.

Overnight, his admiration disappeared.  He quit practicing with him – claiming he needed the extra sleep or was behind in his other lessons.  His father had been confused, hurt, and then angry as the distance between them grew day by day.

He couldn’t ask for an explanation – there couldn’t be one.  How could he have said things like that?

He’d thrown himself into his music, instead – another thing they’d had in common, once upon a time.  And then his voice began to change.  Unwilling to give up the one thing that made him feel better he threw himself into instruments and music/magical theory.

His parents had encouraged him – and he spent even more time in his room.

He wrote to the Divine, looking for a way out.  His father wasn’t the only one who was allowed to have a Calling.

To his surprise, she wrote back.

And then she came and took him to Val Royeaux.  She found him a tutor, and he was set on a course to become a Knight Enchanter, in the thick of the Game, and the Cathedral.  As far away from dusty campsites and musty, rustic Ferelden as he could get.

It was everything he’d ever wanted.  Until he found the diary.

And now, he was staring at a blank sheet of paper, and the raven his parents had given to him – the one he didn’t use nearly enough.  His mother and sisters wrote to him nearly every week.  They were lucky to get one every few months.  His father didn’t write at all.

He sighed, cupping his head.  How could he ask for forgiveness?  How could he admit he was so wrong?

Maybe he couldn’t do it with words.  He had none of his mother’s gift with languages.  He closed his eyes.

It was time to face the music, perhaps.  He picked back up his quill, and scribbling all too quickly, wrote:

> _Dear Mum and Da,_
> 
> _I know, it’s been a while.  My apprenticeship has ended, and I’m a Knight Enchanter.  So that’s good, I guess._
> 
> _Some things have happened, and I need to get my head together.  If it’s okay, I’d like to come home for a little while._
> 
> _I’m going to leave Val Royeaux as soon as I can sort out my travel arrangements.  Write to me if you’ll be home – Odin will find me, you know how smart he is.  If you say no… well, I can always turn around, right?  But I really need to see you all._
> 
> _Da, I have something I need to talk to you about.  I’m sorry, for what it’s worth._
> 
> _Oh, and tell Pip congratulations for me.  I know, I should have written back.  I’m a horrible son and brother._
> 
> _I’m sorry for that too._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Ian_

He didn’t know if they’d be happy to see him or not, but… he had to try.

He stood up, and fastened the letter to the bird, and sent him out, back to South Reach, a ghost of a smile floating around his mouth.

“They’ll be happy to see you,” a voice from his childhood said from his door.

“Hello, Cole.”  Ian turned to the once-spirit.  “It’s been a while.”

“You didn’t want to be reminded,” Cole muttered.  He’d grown up a bit – his eyes looked older.  “That’s okay.  Some things you have to work out on your own.  But they want to see you.”  He held out a bag.  “I made your arrangements.  Leliana says you can use any horse in the stables.”

Ian blinked, and took the saddlebag automatically.  “Thank you.”

The man smiled, “You’re welcome!”  He beamed.  “Asta will be very happy.  She worries about you.  A lot.”

“And… my Da?”

“He’ll be even happier.”  Cole’s eyes swam with tears.  “He doesn’t know what he did – but he suspects.  He’s missed his little hero.  He’s so proud of how hard you’ve worked.  They want you to come home.”

“Home…” Ian looked out his window at the city he’d lived in for years.  Val Royeaux was nothing like Ferelden – but it was a cold city, with no heart that he’d been able to find.  “Yes.  I want to go home.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” Cole took his hand, just like he had when he was three.  “We’ll go together.”


	15. Strength

He loved watching him.

Knight Enchanter Ian Rutherford was grace personified, whirling through the fighting forms around the dummy, the focus on his practice weapon sparking as he cast.  Every movement was calculated, intended, precise.  He bent the Fade around himself, and appeared again facing the other direction, the next stage of the arrangement swanned into like a macabre dance. 

Brother Aldin wanted to compose about the way he fought, moved, cast.  Maybe a minuet?  

He sighed, clutching his sheet music.  He hadn’t meant to stand here and gawk at the man – though disturbing him mid-training looked like something he’d regret doing only once.

If only he wasn’t so distracting… but the way the man’s hair fell like curling ribbons down his bare back – that back built up like something out of the Legend of Calenhad instead of something that a generation ago would have been immured in a Circle-

He shook his thoughts free.  He didn’t want to be ‘that guy’.

He knew what people whispered: things about his parents, about his upbringing outside the reach of the Chantry.  But Ian was a good man.  A kind man.  A devout man.  The best musician in the Cathedral.  A mage nearly beyond compare – that was what the Archon had said, upon his last visit to the Divine Victoria.  And he was fucking beautiful.

The Archon had said that too.

Ian finished his dance with himself, planting his staff in the courtyard, eyes determined… and locked on his one-person audience.  Strangely, Knight-Enchanter Ian Rutherford blushed like a child, the red staining his chest and up to his ears. 

“Brother Aldin!  Did you need something?”  His eyes had softened now – they often did when they looked at him.  At least, Aldin hoped he wasn’t imagining that.  Wishful thinking, probably.

His mouth wouldn’t work.  “Uh – that new arrangement of Silence you wanted for the harp?”  He held up the now rather crinkled manuscript in his hands.  “I think it’s done.  Maybe?”

His eyes lit up like the fireflies back home in Markham.  “Will you play it for me?”

Aldin couldn’t deny this man anything.  “I… suppose.”  He rushed to be more enthusiastic, worried he sounded lukewarm.  “I’d love to.”

“Somebody will have to.  I don’t play the harp,” Ian grinned at him, and caught up the towel to dry his chest.  “I prefer a different assembly of strings.”

Aldin’s mouth had run away with him, “You seem to play mine just fine.”

Ian’s eyes flashed with shock, and then turned up.  “Perhaps I could be persuaded to practice, with a little encouragement?”  He walked over, pulling a loose shirt on, attractively gapped at the neck to frame his clavicle.

Maker, even the man’s collarbones were delicious. “Encouragement, is it?”  Aldin stammered.  “Um… I could arrange that.”

Knight-Enchanter Ian Rutherford was now absurdly close. “And I adore your arrangements, Brother Aldin.  I daresay I’ve never seen their like anywhere in Thedas.”

He was going to die, right there in the Cathedral courtyard, in front of the Maker and all his most holy servants.  “Um… we could make some together, sometime?”  It was the corniest, foolish-est line ever crafted, but… it looked like it was working.

Ian’s eyes were definitely soft, almost wistful – maybe even shy, “Could we? I mean… I’d like that.  If you’re…” the man blew out suddenly, and laughed, “Damn it, Aldin, how do you do this to me?”

How could  _ he  _ do this to  _ him?! _

But the Knight Enchanter was still talking.  “I would like it, a lot.  Dinner?  Tonight?  Or tomorrow, if you’re busy?  I know a place that does decent fish pie… or would you rather have Orlesian than a taste of home?”

Aldin’s blood rushed from his face, “Are you… asking me…” His legs were shaking. “Knight-Enchanter Rutherford…”

“Call me Ian.  I have too many titles.”  Ian leaned in and whispered, “And I don’t want to be your Brother, either.”

He couldn’t possibly be awake.  He’d dreamt about this man for months.  But he wasn’t going to let something like this slip by, just because it couldn’t possibly be real.  “Tonight.  In an… hour?”  He had to get the ink out from under his nails, at the very least.  And do something to his hair.  It looked like a scrub brush.  He felt all the blood rush to his face.  “I mean…”

“It’s a date.”  Ian slapped his thigh with the staff.  “I’ve got to grab a bath, if I’m going to impress you.  In an hour, front gates.”

As he walked away Aldin gave in to his desire to let his knees buckle underneath him.

He had to be the luckiest man in Thedas.  “Maker, give me strength.”

He just had to survive an evening with a demigod, after all.  No problem at all.


	16. Trap

He should have never told the Divine he would do it.

Ian watched the man smile across from him, shy and sweet, and so bloody intelligent.  Brown eyes lit up with embers, hair that tangled too easily, and kept falling into those eyes.  He was enthusiastic, besides, describing his latest arrangement of ‘Silence’.  

Aldin had assumed that this was a business meeting.  Ian had allowed the misunderstanding.

He knew the musician was attracted to him – knew the pull of his looks and accomplishments on most people – women and men.  He’d grown deft at avoiding both.  But Leliana needed the information Aldin had about his last post in the Anderfels, and any information the man held about the state of things in that isolated country.  To allow him to think anything else felt like taking advantage of the man.

Aldin was a foot shorter than he was.  His face was interesting, but not handsome, with a square jaw and rounded cheeks that made him appear cuddly.

The urge to hug him for being just that cute was growing as he watched his dinner partner stammer out an appreciation for the wine.  Instead he touched the back of his hand, hoping to make him a little less nervous.  “It’s okay, Aldin.  You don’t have to impress me.  I’m already impressed.”

The man flushed.  “Oh.  Good?”  

Ian didn’t want to toss empty compliments and hope one landed.  He didn’t want to play him for a fool, or mine him for information.  He wanted to put the man at ease.

It took him a minute to figure out that this wasn’t just a job any longer.  That he really wanted to be there, having dinner with this man.  It had been some time since he’d felt that way.

He hadn’t been out for fun in a long time.  There was always a reason for every social occasion.  It made for an empty sort of life.  Too empty.

It took Aldin choking out, “It’s just… Knight Enchanter…”

“Ian,” he corrected softly, and held his fingers a little tighter.  “Please, call me Ian?”  Any more, it was only the Divine and his family who left out the titles.

“…Ian,” he murmured, glancing up through fuzzy lashes, “You’re out of my league.”

Ian laughed, “Am I now?”  He raised an eyebrow, “What makes you think that?”

“Look at me.”  Now the musician was wearing a self-depreciating smile.  “Now look at you.”

Ian had never been attracted to the men his family had assumed he would be.  He’d even bewildered his Uncle Bull with his preferences.  He sipped his own wine, hiding his own heightened color.  “I… have trouble holding a conversation with most people.  It’s nice to find someone I can talk to.”  Also true.  He’d like to keep as much truth between them as possible.  “Look, if you want to call it a night… if this is weird for you… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”  He half hoped the man would take him up on it.  He didn’t know how to act around someone he liked, who seemed to like him back.

“No!”  Aldin snorted.  “This might be the only chance I have to get to know you.  I’m just sorry for being so… dull.”

“I’m not bored,” Ian assured him.  Around them people stared – openly gawking at the staff on his back and the Chantry robes that were more comfortable than the breeches he should have worn.  He should have asked Leliana what to wear to a private dinner with an attractive mark that you’re supposed to be pumping for information.

“Yet,” the man warned darkly, and drank his wine in a single nervous gulp.  He was young – if not quite as young as Ian, perhaps.  In his twenties, certainly, but his face was younger than his age.  “Just wait until I start talking about how the Second Blight changed the way we sing the Chant.  Or talking about the evolution of lute playing from the Storm Age to today… and then go off on a tangent about lieds.”

He couldn’t let that stand.  “The lute was my first instrument.”

“Oh.”  His dinner partner sat back.  “I… didn’t know that.”

“Surprised I play such a common thing?”  Ian grinned at him.  “I know a large number of Fereldan folk tunes – and a great number of the dirty versions.  Played at every village dance and festival that we were in town for since I was 6.  I take requests,” he added, unable to resist smirking.

Aldin burst out into a stream of nearly too loud laughter, stifled only by his hand over his mouth, but Ian found it adorable.  “I would like to hear those,” he said, overcompensating for his outburst.

“I bet you would,” Ian winked, and leaned close to take his hand again.  “Maybe next time we’ll stay in for the night?”

Aldin’s shock at the suggestion made him worry he’d crossed a line, but then they got lost in discussing the difference in Chantry arrangements between Nevarra and Val Royeaux, and how they compared with Tevinter services, and Ian mostly forgot to ask him about the Anderfels at all, other than a slight mention that his time in the Chantry there had been full of the bleakest canticles.  “The Anderfels are full of the devout – and the extreme.  Their worship music reflects that, darkly,” Aldin had warned, and drank another glass of wine.

When the evening ended – several hours later than originally planned due to the impromptu performance of certain earthy Marcher tunes Aldin had found the liquid bravery to share - Ian found a note waiting for him to report to Divine Victoria.  Sullen, a little drunk, exhausted, and dreading the fact that he had so little to offer, he knocked on her Sanctum’s door, and was bid, “Enter,” in a crisp and proficient voice.

She spun in her chair to give him her full attention. “Well?  How did you like our harpist?”  Her smile was soft and secretive.

Ian stared at her, and then sunk into her overstuffed cushions.  A waft of Andraste’s Grace puffed up with the air from the cushions.  “It was a trap, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.  Aldin is a premier musician.”  Her smile was sweet now.  “It’s been a decade since I’ve seen his like.”

“And you set me up.”  Ian marveled.  “With him, I mean.”

She nodded, pleased.  “I thought you would find a kindred soul in each other.  He knows so few people in the city.  It would do him good to get out and see the sights.  You too,” she added, “You’re looking too pale lately.  Though pale works on you – adds to the whole ‘alabaster god’ aesthetic you’ve got going.  No wonder he couldn’t stop staring at you.”

Ian groaned, and sunk his head into his hands.

“I know how lonely you’ve been, Ian.”  Leliana could be far too tender, when she wanted to be.  “I wanted to help.  I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped.”

He shook his head, despairing.  “He’s fucking perfect.”  He looked up, “He even knows about pre-Blight music, Most Holy.  I blabbed my mouth off about dirty Fereldan folk tunes and how they used the same melody as the Chant and he was  _ interested,  _ and then contributed to the conversation with anecdotes about where he grew up... _ ” _

She giggled, most un-Divinelike.  “You should write to your mother.  If I know Asta, she would adore him.”

“I… will,” Ian realized he meant it.  “And she would.”  His eyes softened. “I hope he’ll see me again.  He was stunned when I brought it up.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” she giggled again, delighted.  “But let him choose where.”  She nudged a flyer towards him, declaring the latest opera starting in a week.  “I had my people obtain a few choice seats, and sent a pair to him with my compliments on his last performance.  Let him take the lead this time?”  She winked.  “It’ll give him confidence when you say yes.”  She lifted a single eyebrow.  “You will say ‘yes’, won’t you?”

Ian groaned, and slumped backwards into the chair.  “I wouldn’t be able to resist.”

“Just as well that I did away with the vows of chastity, then.”


	17. Intent

“I never intended you to find out.”  Ian admitted slowly.

Aldin was all but hiding behind his harp, his face flushed with fury.  “Not surprising.  You wouldn’t want to admit that you were… attracted to the dumpy harpist, would you?  When were you going to let me down easily, Knight-Enchanter?”

“Never.”  Ian took a step forward, and then stopped.  He didn’t want to frighten him, or provoke him.  “Aldin, I… enjoy your company.  A great deal.”

“But,” the man sneered, waiting for an answer.

“There is no but.  I enjoy your company more than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.”

Aldin just looked at him, disbelief in every pore.  “Pull the other one.”

Ian tried to explain.  “You curse at yourself when the music won’t do what you want it to.  You flick your hair out of your face when your hands are too busy playing to stop and smooth it back.  The way you give every beggar at least one coin moves me – and it doesn’t matter how few are in your pouch.  I love –“ his voice broke and he closed his mouth abruptly.  “And you seem to like it when I babble on about music, and home, and vent about my parents… and I – you get me, in a way nobody else in the Cathedral ever has.  If you actually think I’m playing you…”

“I know you are!”  The smaller man pressed his hand down on top of a massive sheaf of sheet music.  “I know you are.  The Revered Mother told me, Ian.  I was… a job for you.  All the dinners out, the bottles of wine in your chambers… you were using me.”  He scoffed, “I can’t imagine what for.  It’s not like I carried the deadly secrets of Markham.  Markham doesn’t have deadly secrets.  It’s as dull as washwater.”  He’d never seen the man so sarcastic.

“Let me explain.  I’ll take you to the Divine.  She’ll tell you…”

“I wasted opera tickets on you!”

“It wasn’t a fucking waste.”  Ian exploded.  “I was with  _ you _ , wasn’t I?”  Aldin shut his mouth.  Ian pressed his advantage.  “Look, if you never want to see my face again, fine.  I’ll go… I’ll go ask to be sent home.  Or to Denerim.  Or somewhere else you aren’t.”  He swallowed, “I never wanted to hurt you, Aldin.  From the moment we met, I’ve wanted nothing but to spend time with you.  The night after our first dinner, I went to the Most Holy, intending to ask her to excuse me from the assignment.  Instead she told me she’d set us both up.”

“The Divine…” Aldin flushed almost purple, and clutched at his robes.  “She… knew I was… and…”

“And she saw how lonely we were.” Ian risked a half-smile.  “She thought we’d be good for each other.”

“Oh.”

“I should have told you.  Straight away.  But I was afraid…”

“You were afraid this would happen.” Aldin sniffed a little, looking younger than his 25 years.  “I… understand, I think.”

They were quiet for a few moments, until Ian bent to pick up his violin case.  “I’m sorry, Aldin.”  He headed for the door of the room, stepping gently around the clutter.  “I’d rather do anything than hurt you.”

A hand closed around his wrist.  “Then don’t go.”

Ian stopped.

“You can never withhold something from me again.  The Revered Mother told me you were one of those… bards.  The Orlesian ones.  You play more than music in the Cathedral.  And I understand.  But you can’t keep things from me, if…” Ian turned around, needing to see the expression on his face.  “If we’re going to try to be something… I can’t deal with that.”

“I’d like to try.  To be… something, I mean.”

Aldin snorted, “I suspect your ‘try’ will look like someone else’s masterpiece.”

“So says the musical genius,” Ian teased back.

“Then we can’t go wrong,” Aldin stepped a little closer, and leaned his head against Ian’s chest.  “Just as long as we remember neither of us is playing solo.”


	18. Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I posted the wrong chapter! There are two more in Ian's mini-arc. Sorry for anyone who saw the other one and had spoilers!

There were many different kinds of tears, Cullen reflected.

The happy ones, like holding his son and daughters for the first time.  Like laughing until he cried with Asta in his arms.  Or wriggling around covered in mabari puppies that had discovered what their tongues were for.

There were tears of pain and grief that had come all too often in their years together.  Lost friends, like Rainier.  Illness and death had touched their family, like every other.

These tears were different than the rest.  They were sad, and happy, and bittersweet, and painful.

They might have been tears of boredom, had this played out for as long as it might have.  But none of their family except Ian had much patience for drawn out pomp and ceremony.  There was no homily. There were no dedications to the Maker or drawn out prayers.  Pippa didn’t want to draw undue attention from a certain person.

Divine Victoria wasn’t invited, though word was she was a little upset about it.

Their son performed the duties instead, solemn, but for once not sullen about his family demanding the short version of everything.  Ian’s eyes were happy, if thoughtful, and they drifted, more than once, to the man standing behind a massive harp at the edge of the landing.

The landing where his daughter – in every way but blood – stood marrying a young man that  _ might  _ deserve her in twenty years.  If he was lucky.

Asta had her good hand wound tight into his, tears running down her face and soaking the arm of his good coat.

His own trickled more slowly.

He’d heard all the platitudes – how he was gaining another son, not losing a daughter.  And he was happy for it.  Truly.  Ian’s particular brand of fighting was as unlike his as possible.  He’d trained him with a sword, and he’d become a Knight-Enchanter by building on those basic skills.  His son was brilliant, and fast, and deadly.  But Soren was the one with no magic to enhance his abilities.

On the one hand, Ian had more skills to train.  On the other, Soren had no other skills to fall back on.  He’d drilled him mercilessly, to bring him closer to the side of where he’d need to be to fight demons and not die.

He doubted he would be forgiven if he died.  That was a powerful motivator.

The lad’s family liked his Pip well enough.  That was more than they’d hoped to find in this part of Ferelden where even their influence didn’t reach far enough to erase years of prejudice and stigma.  They didn’t like the Inquisitor at his side, and merely tolerated him.  They didn’t understand why anyone would just stop being a Templar – it was supposed to be an honor to serve the Maker.

It was hard to watch her gain another family.  They couldn’t possibly love her the way she deserved. 

Pippa had chosen a simple red dress, and a flower wreath made by Asta.  She stood out enough already, she said, when Josie had wanted her to wear white.  And white had never been her color.

His youngest daughter fidgeted at his side.  He reached out and took her hand, before she decided to shoot fire at her siblings.  Sera had too much influence on this one.  Ty pouted, he frowned, and then she relaxed into him all at once, much like her mother on his other side.

It felt like reassurance, even though she’d be leaving soon, to go back to Ostwick with her grandfather.

Someone apparently had to take up the mantle of Lord or Lady Trevelyan.  And everyone else had refused or taken vows.  And Tyra was eager to stay with her grandfather and see what being noble was really like.

Ty – despite her insatiable curiosity – had a good head on her shoulders.  She would be all right.  He worried more about Ostwick.  It sounded rather dull, to hear Asta’s tales.  Tyra didn’t do well with ‘boring’.  The town would never be the same.

The vows – almost as short as their own – wrapped up, and before Ian managed to keep a straight face to tell his sister to kiss her husband, it became apparent that Soren hadn’t waited for permission.  Asta giggled, and Ty murmured, ‘Eww…’

Definitely spending too much time with Sera.

He wiped his tears and let out his smile.

There would be time later to weep for missing her.

When, you know, she actually left home for further than a wedding trip to Denerim.  He laughed at himself a little.

Perhaps it was a bit early to grieve.


	19. Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it - wrapping up the bulk of Ian's story. After this, we'll have a one shot of Alistair and Elissa's daughter, and then onto Tyra, the youngest child of Asta and Cullen.

Ian paced in the antechamber.

After all these months – years – of planning, of careful strategizing across Thedas, it still came down to a vote.

Well, twelve votes. At least. And that was assuming they were managing a vote every half hour. He glanced at his partner, but Aldin was moving his fingers, composing music in his mind to pass the time. He crossed to his bag and pulled out the ink and paper he’d started keeping there for moments like this, handing them wordlessly to his love.

Aldin flashed him a goofy, embarrassed sort of grin, “Sorry, couldn’t…”

“It’s all right,” Ian rolled his neck. “I’d be doing the same, if I could. But I feel sort of… sick.”

“You shouldn’t be nervous,” his husband assured him. “You had a clear majority, despite her experience.”

“And attempted blackmail,” Ian clenched his jaw, but Aldin dropped the quill to reach up and rub his jaw, absent-mindedly. “Don’t forget what she…”

“And they know that,” Aldin radiated peace. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of…”

“Time?” Ian growled – and then stopped, too aware that he sounded like his Da. “It’s taking an age.”

“Patience,” Aldin corrected smoothly, and looked back down at his papers. “You should be composing your acceptance speech. There’s so much to be done, isn’t that what you said when you didn’t come to bed the last three nights?”

Ian chuckled, despite himself. “I wish I had your confidence.”

“Then take it.” His smile grew wider. “Now, sit down, before I have to replace your boot soles again. Vow of poverty, remember? I don’t want to ask your parents for money.” Ian laughed, despite himself. “That’s better.”

It was another half an hour before the door cracked open. “Knight-Enchanter Rutherford?”

He bounded to his feet, from where he had been inspecting his boot soles – as Aldin had predicted, they were getting worn. There had been a lot of pacing lately. “Yes?”

“You’re needed in the hall,” the messenger waved him through, and Aldin waved him forward.

“Go on, my dear. I’ll be along presently. Just a few more measures, and I’ll have it locked down, I think.”

Ian led the way through the building, the messenger struggling to keep up. When he entered, his eyes searched the crowd for faces he knew.

There. There was Rhys. And Penny. And… he forgot to watch where he was walking and stumbled on the step to the dais. From the opposite side, Vivienne entered, her normal horns abandoned for a showing of her snow-white hair – no doubt a way to cast doubt on his youth and relative inexperience.

Still, the vote was over. If the members regretted it now, it was too late. He stood up straighter, channeling every inch of his height, and what authority it gave him.

“Grand Enchanter Vivienne,” the man besides him addressed Vivienne.

Ian’s stomach clenched tight. He fought and won against the urge to adjust his too-tight collar.

“The Circle would like to thank you for your years of service.” The woman flashed a triumphant smile at Ian, but the First Enchanter wasn’t done. “But the final vote has been taken.” He turned back to Ian. “Knight-Enchanter Rutherford, the Circle would like to offer you the position of…”

Ian’s ears rushed, his eyes swam with tears, seeing the outline of Vivienne slipping away from the platform. “I’m… sorry, did you say…”

A mantle was placed about his shoulders, and he locked eyes with Aldin in the back of the room, who beamed at him, victorious. “Grand Enchanter Rutherford.” The Orlesian bowed, elaborately.

“Oh, for the love of the Maker, stand up,” Ian snapped at him, and the room laughed. “Let’s just be done with all that nonsense.” He took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs fully for the first time in hours. “We’ve got too much work to do to keep standing on these ridiculous ceremonies.” Aldin grinned at him, cheekily proud, and he smiled back, tender. “We know what must be done, so let’s start doing it, and save the rituals for the magic.”

An hour later, the receiving line had finally ended, but Ian’s head was buzzing.

“Told you so,” Aldin chirped, taking his hand. He tightened his fingers.

“So you did.”

“In the end, I think it was her age that did her in.” Aldin reflected. “The younger mages don’t want to be seen as anything except progressive. She was rather an… what’s the word, it’s on the tip of my tongue… antique isn’t it, but close enough, maybe?”

Ian choked, and laughed aloud. Before them, a woman’s form – one he believed he recognized – stiffened, and then slumped into a nearby street, alone. “You know, I think she was. Outdated. An artifact from a different time.” He looked up and let the drizzling rain hit his face. He felt like it was purifying him, the Circle, and even Thedas itself. “It’s time to move forward.”


	20. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a one shot about King Alistair, because I can. Ha! Take that, world!

Alistair wasn’t used to hearing laughter in the halls of the Palace.  Especially not at this hour.

He’d retired late, a meeting with a Merchant Prince that drug out for entirely too long.  He stunk with the smell of cigars and brandy.  He hadn’t indulged much, and not at all in the cigars – the smell didn’t blend well with cheese – but it would have been rude to refuse entirely.

Sometimes all the manners were worse than the ruling.

The laughter rang out again.  Was he imagining the noise?  It was early enough that he could be hallucinating with lack of sleep…

There was a low light in his room, one that Elissa had often left burning for him, on occasions such as these.  He didn’t deserve such thoughtfulness.

But… the laughter was from behind the door?

He cracked it open, trying to be silent, and failed, as always.  Two pairs of eyes swiveled to him from the bed, one pair guilty and tired, the other gleeful.

The smaller one squealed and clapped her hands.

Alistair put his hands on his hips, “Young ladies, isn’t it past your bedtime?”  Baby Fiona giggled madly.

“Tell your daughter that,” his wife drawled.

He shrugged out of his coat and slipped off his shoes.  “Hmm, don’t make me have to ground you, young woman.”  She held out her arms, and he lifted her away from her mother.  “Your mother needs her rest.”  He settled on the bed, one knee bent beneath him.

“So does your father.”  Elissa wrinkled her nose.  “Cheesy, you smell like a cigar factory.”

“You know those merchant princes, they have no olfactory sense left,” Alistair propped the two of them up on the headboard.  His daughter sneezed.  “I should have bathed, but I’m so…”

“It’s alright,” she soothed.  “It’s so early – if you don’t sleep now, you never will.”  She snuggled into his side.  “What will we do with our nocturnal offspring?”

“Let her sleep here?”  Alistair put forward tentatively.

“The nurses won’t like it…” his wife bit her lip.

“Yes, well, I don’t see them waking up in the wee hours to deal with her hilarity.”  Fiona yawned and snuggled into his shirt.  “And see… she’s getting sleepy now.  It’s a shame to waste that.”

Elissa giggled, “They’ll go insane when she’s missing in the morning.”

“They’ll get over it.”  Alistair kissed his daughter’s head.  “Please, can she stay here?  I barely get to spend time with her as it is.”

Elissa pursed her lips, “As long as we throw off the extra blankets and pillows, I suppose.  And you’d better get rid of those smelly clothes.  Maker only knows what those are doing to her humors.”

“Thank you,” he beamed at his perfect wife.

“And if she wets through her nappy, you’re changing the sheets!”

He slept better with his daughter on his chest than he had in months.  Maybe even years.  It was worth the screaming nursemaids at dawn to wake up to her giggles as she wrapped her tiny hands into his chest hair.

And pulled.

His daughter was very strong.

His own screams far surpassed the nursemaids.  But so did his pride.


	21. Stain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first in a series of shorts about Tyra, Asta's youngest.

Their youngest daughter was an artist.

Not unlike someone else of their acquaintance, her chosen medium was paint, and plaster, combined with walls.

“This is not okay,” Cullen was not amused.  “We can’t have her… defacing our home.”

“It’s a good likeness, though,” Asta, on the other hand, was trying not to laugh.

“Damn it, Solas,” Cullen’s jaw was clenched so tight she was worried he was going to break a tooth.  “He needs to stay out of our kids’ dreams.  We told him…”

“We can’t stop him.”  It’s not like they hadn’t tried to find a way to restrict the Dreamer – but all of the possibilities hadn’t panned out.  Either he was too powerful, or there was no way to stop him at all.

Cullen didn’t like being reminded, judging by the twitch above one eye.  Asta patted him, soothingly.  “We’ll just whitewash over it.  A few reminders to Ty not to paint on the walls, and we’re good.”

Ty, suitably chastened, was given a brush and a pot, and with suitable supervision, the work was painted over.

But the next morning, it was back.  As crisp and clear as ever, the wolf with six red eyes glared out from the wall in the hallway.  “I didn’t do it!” Tyra insisted.

“I believe you, baby,” Asta sighed, running her fingers through her hair.  “Um… when you painted this… did it feel… strange?”

“Tingled.”  Ty’s guilty eyes shone up at her.  “Didn’t I do a good job, Mum?  Don’t you like it?”

It was very hard to stay firm.  “But we don’t paint on our walls, Tyra.”

She pouted.  “The doggie does.  He said you liked it when he did it.”

“I see.”  Asta felt a headache coming on.  “We’ll figure something out.  And it’s a lovely picture.  Just… use paper, next time.”

“Okay, Mum.”  A sticky kiss, and the little girl left her mother to paint over the picture, again.

But it emerged once more.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Cullen growled.  He gestured at the picture outside their door.  “Does he think it’s funny?!”

“Probably?”  Asta tried, her mouth twitching.  “It’s not like he doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“It’s growing more elaborate,” Cullen fumed.

It’s true, there was a suggestion of Orlesian rolling hills behind the creature now, and a ruined tower, and even the wolf – though still obviously their daughter’s work – featured the barest suggestion of a wolfy grin.  “He does seem to be enjoying himself.”  Asta sighed.  “I’ll ask Lady Cerastes if she has any suggestions.”

The mother of five did, as it turned out, and the painting disappeared again, under a spell of invisibility, and a charm meant to break down magic into its most fundamental form.

But the next morning, “Mum, it’s back,” Pippa came in, rubbing her eyes.

“Can you ask him to knock it off?”  Asta asked.

“Yes?  But I doubt he’ll listen.”

They both surveyed the artwork for a few minutes.  “It’s rather attractive, I suppose.”  Asta pursed her lips.

“A little primitive, but not ugly,” Pippa agreed.

“How can we get your father to just allow it to stay?”

“Set a pouty Tyra on him,” Pippa suggested wryly.  “You know how he gets when she’s sad.”

And so, at bedtime, when Cullen stood before the damn wall, nostrils flared and every line of his body tense, Tyra was ready.  “You don’t like it?”  Her eyes were huge and filled with tears.

“It’s not that…”

“I made it for you and Mama, to remind you of Skyhold,” her lower lip trembled.  “And you don’t like it.”

“Sweetheart, it’s lovely, but…”

“I worked really hard.”  The tears spilled over.

“Damn it,” Cullen was heard to mutter.  “Come here, pup.”  He gathered his tiny daughter in his arms.  “It’s beautiful.  No more painting on the walls, but… I suppose it can stay.  For now.”

“You mean it?”  Her arms tightened around his neck, and Cullen caught Asta’s smug look, and sighed.

“I promise.”

“Thank you, Da.”  She squeezed him hard.  “I’ll go get ready for bed.”  He set her down and surveyed his wife.

“If you can’t beat them…” she began.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he tilted his head back, and groaned.  “It can stay,” he repeated.  “For now.”


	22. Muscle

“It’s all about muscle control, and focus,” her grandfather told her, while kicking her feet out a little wider.  “You pull, aim, breathe out, release, and follow through.”

The arrow thudded into the ground just before the target.  Tyra drooped.  “It’s all right,” he handed her another arrow.  “Try again.  It takes practice.  Ask Lady Sera.”

“Sera doesn’t have to practice,” Ty pouted, but did as he asked.  She drew, aimed – the target far wobblier than she liked, breathed out slow, and released, holding onto the bow for much longer than she might have otherwise.  The arrow thunked into the lowest edge of the target.

“Much better,” her Granddad praised.  “Again.”

She practiced with him most days – her magic wasn’t presenting itself like her brother or sister’s, and she liked the physical exercise to balance the mental side of things.  Sera started to help once she was past the beginning stage, though her tutelage consisted mostly of trying to distract her at the ‘right’ moments. 

Her arms bulked up enough that her Mum starting ordering her clothes made with larger sleeves, so they didn’t chafe.  The girls in the village called her names, but she liked the way it looked.  Strong.  Capable.  She could outlift her brother, most of the time, and he didn’t even try to compete with her snooping abilities.

Her strength was beautiful.  She wasn’t going to let anyone change her mind about that.

Everything felt wrong on days when she had too many other commitments to practice.  She preferred to start her day with archery, the soothing focus of arrows whistling through the air.  Learning to accommodate for wind speed and air temperature until it was second nature was like becoming a part of the world around her - better than any meditation.

And her Granddad would take her hunting occasionally – it felt good to go out and bring something back to the kitchen, like contributing.  It was better than the endless lessons with Petri in mathematics, and history, and magic…

She could do them, but she didn’t enjoy them.  She’d rather be out in the open air, like her Da, training the dogs than locked up in her room like Ian.

And then her brother left for Val Royeaux.  For a while, everyone was sad.  Her mother cried a lot, her father looked worried, and her Granddad pensive.  The only one who didn’t fuss about it was Pippa – who was too busy caboodling with her Soren to miss her younger brother much.

The question from her Granddad came as a shock one brisk morning, out by the targets.  “Ty – would you ever consider moving to Ostwick?”

“What for?” She released an arrow, and it hit, sure and true.

“If your brother takes vows with the Chantry, Ostwick won’t have an heir.”

She dropped her bow to her side, her fingers tightening.  “Oh.  You need…”

“I was considering it, even before he left.”  Granddad was honest – he wouldn’t lie.  “We get along well, don’t we?  Ian’s a good lad, but we’re friends, you and I.  I know Ostwick isn’t… exciting.  Not like being here, but I thought, maybe...”

She looked around at her home and saw it with new eyes.  People were constantly coming and going, researchers in their library, ravens with the latest news from all over Thedas, the trips to exotic locales, but their family was always coming home to a town where most of the inhabitants crossed the street when they saw them coming, even while they took the money they spent at the markets with a smile on their face.

Mum said it kept them all humble.  Probably she was right.  Tyra had grown up familiar with the duplicity it took to keep the peace in South Reach. 

She’d never considered leaving.  It was just the way things were.

Ty looked at her Granddad, realizing he looked… older than she thought.  He was losing hair, had the squinting look of someone who needed spectacles but wouldn’t remember to put them on if he had them.  She frowned, his mortality hitting her all at once.

But hope bloomed in those same eyes.  “If I said yes, what would that mean?”

He smiled, a look of pure joy, and she loved him all over again.  “We’ll talk about it with your parents tonight.”

It would take another sort of muscle memory, to live in the world of nobility, but… she was a quick learner.

And her bow could come with her anywhere.


	23. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is extremely short, but it took less words than I thought it would to express.

“Yeah, I didn’t see it coming, you becoming one of those nobs,” Sera snorted.

“Granddad needs somebody.  Otherwise it’ll go to a cousin.”  Tyra kicked the stone wall under her feet. “Mum says they’re not very nice.”

“Let it, then.  They deserve the trouble,” Sera wrinkled her nose.  “You’re… you’re even better than your Mam, you know?  You care about things, like she does, but more.  You ruling things - it don’t seem right.”

“Maybe I’ll be able to change stuff, if I become Lady Trevelyan.”  She’d thought of her arguments, knowing her Auntie wouldn’t take the news well.  “Nothing’s set in stone, after all. I’m just going for a visit.”

“Then I guess Widdle and I will go with you.”

“What?!” Tyra fell off the back of the wall, and came up rubbing her head to a laughing Sera.  “What did you say?”

“I’m not gonna let you go, not without me.”  Sera swung herself up on the wall, and fished two cookies out of her bag, handing her one.  “You’re like… ours.  Not like your whiny shit of a brother, or Miss Spooks – though she’s gotten better since she’s gotten a bit of slap and tickle.”

Tyra didn’t want to think about her sister… doing that.  With anyone, much less Soren.  “Oh.”

“So… if you go with your Grandda, we’re coming with you.  Already talked about it.  Your parents can do without us for the next while, and then if you hate it, we’ll come right back with you.  Solves them having to drop everything and come fetch you.”  She sniffed, “And we’ll remind you of the little people, too.  Lest you get too high and mighty, Lady T.”

“As if that would happen.”  Ty crammed the rest of the cookie in her mouth and vaulted the fence.  “But thanks,” the words were muffled.

“Ay, no tears,” Sera looked positively scared.  “You can’t cry on me, brat.”

Tyra wiped her eyes.  “Choking.  Not crying.”

Sera eyed her, “Right.”

It wasn’t much of a lie.  But she… she felt better about the trip already.

She wouldn’t be leaving everyone behind, after all.


	24. Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a duplicate on the prompt list, so I added this one on my own.

“So… what’d she do?”  Ty squinted through the fence at the prim woman reading.  The cover on the book looked like there were too many hands to be real.

“Usual, but worse,” Auntie Sera sniffed.  “Look, I gave you an easy one to start with, but if you’re nugshit…”

“I’m not scared,” Ty didn’t look away from the mark.  “I just want to know what will bug her the most.”

“She’s a prim and proper sort,” Sera admitted.  “I thought maybe jam – but maybe it’s overdone?  Wasps?  No...”

Ty wrinkled her nose, “Not pointed enough, right?  I mean – she’ll write off wildlife as part of feral Ostwick.  We can’t possibly be cultured here.  Too isolated.”

“Maybe she’ll leave, then,” Dagna muttered from her place in the bush.  “Local merchants say she doesn’t pay her bills.”

“We’ve got to get them paid,” Ty whispered.  “How can we do that?”  She sat back on her heels.

“Wait… you want results, not just a prank?”  Sera tilted her head, thinking.  “Bet her servants don’t get paid much either.  Wonder if we can make it rain?”

“Where does she keep her money?”

“Where does her daddy keep her money, you mean,” Dagna was twisting a tool around, fiddling with some attachment.  “Girls like that are too delicate to handle their own finances.”

“Dunno, but I can find out.”  Sera stretched.  “Give me twenty, meet me back here.”  She stood up and dusted off her clothes – chosen to blend in with the drab servants, but more wrinkled than theirs, by far.

Tyra kept watching.  Tea was delivered, barely touched, and then taken away when it was declared ‘too strong’.  It was replaced, and the target merely wrinkled her nose and waved it away.  She wasn’t thirsty any more.  Her book laid down open, no bookmark in sight.  Ty’s mother would have killed her.  The book was abandoned in favor of scolding the servants.  A few drops of rain fell - but still the book was ignored.

Two fluffy, beribboned dogs bounded into the garden, jumping up on their presumed mistress, who squealed and knocked them away, “They’re filthy!  Someone bathe them, quick, before they touch me!”

“I’d like to rescue those poor things,” Ty whispered to Dagna.

“Oh, the servants take care of them, not her,” the dwarf finished her project and tucked it into her vest.  “Don’t feel too sorry for them.  Spoiled rotten.”

Ty wasn’t so sure, but she let it go, for now.

Sera slid back into the space between the hedges.  “Got it.  Safe, first floor study.  No enchantments.  It’ll have to be a night thing, though – he’s in there all day, according to my people.”  She blew a strand of hair away from her face.  “Nearly got caught.  Housekeeper’s canny, aye?  Knows her people.  Didn’t expect that.”  She made a face.  “She’s decent.  Hope she doesn’t get fired.”

“Tonight, then,” Tyra breathed.  “We go in at night, see what we can use.”

The nightwatch of the house was useless, with a simple vial of sleep potion thrown in their direction.  Ty - alone this time - slipped through the quiet house, and into the study.

The lights were out, and she didn’t dare light a single one.  Instead, she checked for traps - magical and otherwise, meticulously working her way across the room.

Nothing.  It was too easy.  But, she opened the window anyway.  “It’s clear.”

Sera scrambled in.  “Pick the safe then.”

Heart hammering, she checked the combination again, and began, slowly.  If there was ever a case for ‘make haste slowly’, this was it.  In the meantime, Sera was writing on the house stationery, cackling under her breath.  “Done,” she sat back on her heels, and the door swung open.  “You got the letters ready?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” the elf crowed, smirking.  “Housekeeper’s gonna have a grand day tomorrow - and if he tries to reneg, they’ll all quit and leave him with nobody to shine his shoes and iron his daughter’s whites.”  She nudged Tyra with her thin-soled foot, “This idea - it was grand, aye?”

“Thanks.”  Tyra bit her lip.  “Let’s distribute the wealth, then.”

Quickly, they portioned out the amounts into the individual envelopes, first the debts, and then the total of nearly everything else to equal the amount in backpay to his overworked employees, as directed in the counterfeited letter to the Housekeeper.

“Just like Satinalia,” she couldn’t help giggle.

“Better than.  No stupid ‘Vint gods to get in the way of the fun,” Sera countered.

They left the house by way of the window, sliding it shut behind them, and two shadows darted across the lawn.

Letters were slipped under businesses downtown and elsewhere.  It had been a shock how much the prim daughter of the house owed to seedy lingerie shops - not so buttoned up, as Sera would no doubt say tomorrow.  They made it back to her grandfather’s townhouse at just before dawn.

“It’s really like we’re doing him a favor,” Tyra leaned on her elbows on her small balcony.  “I mean, now he’ll be able to get credit in town again, right?”

“Not likely,” Sera snorted, “Once bitten, right?”

Tyra sighed, and accepted the cup of tea from Dagna with thanks.  “So what happens now, Jenny?”

Sera cackled, “That’s up to you, Ostwick.”

“What?!”

“You heard me.  Now bugger off, and let us sleep.  I’m exhausted.”


	25. Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prepare to get spammed with the finish to the challenge! Because I did it!

It was hard to keep thinking of the girl next to her as the Crown Princess of Ferelden.

She didn’t look much like the King, or the Queen, for that matter.  Hair as sleek as a raven’s wing, with sallow skin, her eyes gleamed like seawater – her sole gift from her mother.  She looked more like a wet seal than a Princess.

She didn’t behave like one, either.  Fiona bounced instead of walked, ran instead of glided.  When she spoke, she gestured haphazardly, fingers threatening to put her companion’s eyes out in her enthusiasm as she described the spell the Court Enchanter had cast the night before at dinner.

Whatever spell she was casting worked. Tyra was bewitched. 

“You’re not what I expected,” Fiona told her one afternoon, when they sat in the gardens, tossing crumbs at the koi fish.  The animals nibbled neatly at the edges, flashing gold and silver and black and white at their audience, flirting their fins as they scrambled for more food.  “Most Lady Anythings who come to visit me are… boring.”  She frowned, “No offense?”

“None taken,” Tyra flushed, and stared at her feet.  “I don’t want to be rude, but you’re not what I expected either.  You’re… louder than I thought a princess would be.”  She revised her statement, “Well, except for the Princess Consort of Starkhaven.   But she was a Champion first.”

“Ugh.  That’s what they all say,” Fiona wrinkled her nose.  “I don’t care.  Mother says I don’t have to be perfect.  That I can just be myself.”  She gestured widely.  “And this is me.”

“Don’t you have to worry about what the Landsmeet thinks?”

“Why?”  Fiona tossed a full handful of bread at the ponds.  “Da’s not going anywhere.  He promised Mum after the last adventure he’d stay put for as long as the old buggers kept giving him votes of confidence.”  She rolled her eyes, and leaned back on the bench, arms behind her head and trouser-clad legs spread wide.  “I don’t care if they decide I’m not fit to be Queen.  Look at what happened to Moira.  Deposed by a bloody Orlesian, the first chance they got.  The cheese trade is only now recovering.”

“Good point,” Ty allowed.  The sun glowed off her silky hair like a halo, and Tyra closed her fist, trying not to touch it.  She should have grown out of the shiny thing by now.  Unable to resist, she reached out.

It was as soft as it looked.  She snatched her hand back before the girl could notice.

“Anyway,” Fiona started again, “You’re not boring, Lady Trevelyan.”

“Likewise, your highness.”

Fiona giggled.  “Just call me Fee.  Da does, and Mother, too.  Sometimes I’m even ‘Fiend’, if I’ve gotten into a lot of trouble that day.”

“Fee, then.”  Tyra felt warm all over now.  “I’m just Ty.  I lived in South Reach until two years ago.  I’m as Fereldan as you are, no matter who my grandfather is.”

“Fee and Ty.  We match – sort of.  And both of us with foreign grandparents.  Better and better.”  The girl leaned closer.  “You want to go nick some sweets out of the kitchen?  Or maybe some cheese?”

Tyra would follow her anywhere.  “What kind of sweets?”

“Depends on Cook.  If we’re lucky, she’ll have cheesecake tarts.  Best of both worlds.”  She bounded up, striding backwards towards the main building.  “Come on.  Let’s go see.  And then we’ll take them to the Mabari kennels and look at the new batch of puppies.”  Fiona frowned, “Your Da breeds Mabari, doesn’t he?  Do you like dogs?”

“Mmmhmm,” Ty scrambled to rearrange her damn skirts to follow.

“You’ll be interested, then!  The new puppies are so cute!”

Cursing, Ty looped the damn things up above her knees, tucking them into her belt.  Next time, she’d wear trousers, too.  Granddad wouldn’t complain – lots of nobles in the Marches preferred them.

And it looked like the Crown Princess of Ferelden was nice enough not to comment on her scarred-up knees.


	26. Lock

“This was a terrible idea,” Fee hissed at her friend.  “I should never have listened to your bragging.  ‘I can open anything,’” she mocked.

“Shut up, I’ve almost got it,” Ty muttered back.  “Just need to concentrate…”  The lock clicked, but when she shoved at the door, it failed to open.   “Shit.”

Fee giggled, “Your Mum would wash your mouth out.”

“My Mum taught me the word,” she sassed back,  _ looking  _ at the lock, sort of sideways, like she did when she was trying to see it the special way.

It glowed, just as she suspected.  “Your Da thought we’d try something,” she told Fee.  “He had it enchanted, on top of the stupid Fereldan lock.”  She rummaged in her pouch, past her lockpicks. “I told you I did it right – it’s unlocked.”

“Then why won’t the door open?”  The Crown Princess squinted, as if she could see it too.

“Because he laid a trap over it!  If I forced it, it would probably explode.”  She squinted and looked again.  “On the other hand, no.  It’s meant to… put me to sleep.  Both of us, probably.  That way we can be hauled before the magistrates, get charged, go to prison for theft.”

“I can’t go to prison,” hissed Fee.

Ty rolled her eyes, “No one’s going to arrest the Crown Princess for stealing her own family’s jewels!”

Fee colored.  “Oh.”

“That’s why this is supposed to be funny,” Ty grumbled.  “A prank.  Something to shake up Eamon for being such a fussy britches.”

“Still, I don’t want to get caught.”  Fee was chewing at her lip, and Ty had to look away to concentrate properly.  “Mother would kill me.”

“We won’t get caught,” Ty smiled as she felt the Dispel take over.  But then a shrieking sound began, echoing through the halls.  “Shit,” she stood, and grabbed her friend’s hand.  “Run!”

Laughing madly, they scampered, but the sound followed them, clear up to the Princess’ rooms.

Where the King, the Queen, Eamon, Fiona’s Grandmother and Tyra’s Grandfather waited, just on the other side of the door.  “We can explain,” Tyra tried.

Fiona looked at her feet.  She wasn’t going to be a lot of help.

“You got further than I expected,” His Majesty admitted.  “I thought we’d be looking for the two of you at dinner, and find you passed out on the floor.”

“It was a good one,” Ty grinned at him, some of her equanimity restored.  “I could see that far.  Didn’t see the noise coming, though.  How’d your mages manage that?  Linked to the Dispel rather than the door physically?  Nice trick.”

“Royal Secret, my dear.”

“Obviously.”  The noise stopped with a snap of Fiona’s grandmother’s fingers. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Lady Trevelyan.”

“I’m sorry, Da.  Mother.”  Sometimes Ty wished Fee wasn’t so meek around her parents.  Alone, she was amazing, but she had this thing about disappointing them… funny how it used to be the other way around.  But then, as she’d gotten older, her parents had become more amazing, instead of less.  Fee’s just looked stressed out all the time.

The Queen sighed.  “Lord Trevelyan, I trust you will handle the discipline of your granddaughter?”

“Of course, Your Majesties.”  Her Granddad’s eyes were twinkling, but Tyra tried not to relax.  “And I apologize for the… disturbance.  Apologize, Tyra.”

“I’m sorry, and I won’t do it again,” she repeated by rote.

“Well, we can’t have that!”  The King exclaimed in mock horror.  “You’re the most effective test of our safeguards!”  His eyes crinkled up, “Try it again in a week or so, and let me know if you get any further.”

“Alistair!”

“What, you know I’m right!”

Tyra adored the King of Ferelden.  And she even got a smile from his daughter, when she realized they weren’t going to get in that much trouble.

Worth it.


	27. Mask

As a Marcher, even a noble, Tyra didn’t have to wear a mask, but as a bard… they were essential.

She wasn’t the only noble in the building playing two roles.  Her brother was courting approval for his planned takeover of the Circle.  It was about time.

Tyra wasn’t a member, but it had been her idea for him to invite her for the Wintersend festivities, to see what Lady Trevelyan could dig up ‘officially’, and what Red Jenny could ferret out via eavesdropping, servants, snooping, and gossip.

It helped that the Crown Princess of Ferelden and her parents had been especially invited for the season.  Celene had a young cousin she was hoping would take to the girl.

Tyra didn’t like that part much, but it wasn’t like Fiona was going to get to choose who she ended up with.  Part and parcel of the royalty bit.

Her role was easier.  Granddad wasn’t gonna marry her off to anyone soon.  Just as well, since she didn’t really see anyone that way.  More important things to do than fall in love.

Her parents were somewhere around – they’d come to Val Royeaux to attend her brother’s wedding, but had stuck around to visit with the Divine, and a few other old acquaintances.

One of which was Ty’s main target for the evening.  “Hey, Ostwick!” her guide hissed, and jerked her head towards the guest suite.

She picked up her feet a little quicker, careful to make sure her lurker leathers didn’t hiss between her thighs.  If the rooms were occupied the smallest noise would alert someone…

But they were empty, and she breathed a little easier, gliding around the booklined edges of the room.  Gloved fingers stroked thick tomes – mostly magic and history and manners - just what she would expect from Madame de Fer, the Grand Enchanter of the so-called ‘Reformed’ Circle.  She looked sideways at the bookshelf, reaching out to sense magical traps… and gasped when there were several glowing orbs burning into her retinas.

She rubbed away the afterglow, and reached for the closest, narrowing her abilities to a fine point – just like a magic lockpick.

The book snapped, and she took it down, to find the letter within.  She read it, quickly, and then pocketed it, and the reset the ward as carefully as possible, moving onto the next.

It was taking too much time.  Madame de Fer rarely stayed for an entire ball any longer.

She was just taking the last down when a voice rang out behind her.  “Ah.  And you’ll be the youngest.”  She turned, towards the woman, stepping backwards towards the open window – the only remaining exit.  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Lady Trevelyan,” The Grand Enchanter’s mask was only a step down from the Empress’ itself in decoration.  “I may call you by your name, may I not?”  She waved her hand towards a chair.  “It’s several stories down, and I insisted upon this room because of it’s lack of climbable trellis.  Your brother is very… determined in his hackfisted way.”

“Dunno no Lady Trav-ever.”  She tried, without much hope of it succeeding.

Madame de Fer let out a peal of laughter, “Oh, darling, you do a marvelous parody of Sera.  Well done, well done indeed,” her eyes narrowed behind her mask.  “Now, what shall I do with you?”

The spell took her unawares, and her feet were frozen to the thick carpet.  “Dunno what you’re talking ‘bout.  Iffen you want what I’ve got, yeh’ll have to pay for it, like anybody.”

“I rather think I have the upper hand right now, my dear.”  Her smug satisfaction turned Tyra’s stomach.  “I could remove your mask.  My sources say you look a great deal like your mother.”

“Don’t have a ma.”

“Oh, she would be rather upset to hear that,” the woman purred obnoxiously.  Tyra resisted rolling her eyes, as she picked apart the spell holding her still, bit by bit.  The Grand Enchanter crossed the room and sat in one of the elegant chairs.  “I had heard you’d moved back to the Marches, but I hadn’t heard of an estrangement.”  She tilted her head.  “An act, then,” she decided.

The spell fell to pieces, but the Enchanter didn’t notice.  Tyra didn’t move a muscle, determined not to give away her gift.  She might not even realize…

The woman finally stood, after observing her for several minutes, gliding with all the elegance that Tyra’s own tutors had drilled into her, and then made her practice abandoning during spy training.  She reached out her hand, and Tyra let fly her own surprise – an electric shock meant to immobilize.

Her opponent shook silently for a few seconds and Tyra – Tyra ran, book still in hand, but discarding it into a shrubbery as she took off for the closet where she’d stashed her finery.  She redressed with shaking hands – knowing there would be no sign of help.  Her corset wasn’t as tight as it should be – but the nobles would just assume that meant a dalliance.  Not the end of the world.  She listened for footsteps, emerging at last, half-drank wineglass in hand, cheeks flushed, hair touseled.

She slid silently back through the double doors to the ballroom, noting that Madame de Fer was no-where in evidence.  She glided to her brother-in-law’s side, tucking her hand into his arm.  He started, before relaxing, all at once.  “Lady Tyra!  How do you find the wine?”  Aldin was so nervous, even in this minor role.

She smiled and squeezed his arm – a silent signal that, while it hadn’t gone perfectly, he needn’t worry.  “I’ve had better, but I like the pepper.”

“Excellent,” he stammered.  “Should we go find your parents?  I’m sure they’re missing you.”

“I suppose,” she shrugged.  “I was hoping to dance, but no one here seems… interested.”

There were immediate offers from three of the men surrounding her genius brother in law, and she accepted one with the brightest smile she could muster.  “Tell Mother and Father not to wait up,” she winked at Aldin who laughed, and blushed at the insinuation.

“I’ll do that, sister.”


	28. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just one more after this.

“I’ve got it,” Tyra flopped, heedless of her ballgown and corset, into her brother’s settee.  She bounced up again, forgetting the tightness of this season’s bindings.  She handed off the letters to her brother, and then struggled to release the laces.

“Are you…” her brother in law didn’t know where to look, but she scoffed at him.

“It’s not like I don’t have my leathers on underneath, Aldin.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to strip here and now.  Your virtue is safe from me.”  She loosened it just enough to breathe and sit, and then relaxed again.  “Better.”  She poured herself a whisky from their decanter and threw it down.  “Well?  How did I do?”

“Perfectly,” her brother hadn’t relaxed – he didn’t ever relax – but he was smiling, easily.  “Just what we needed, really.  Proof of her blackmailing the College heads for voting in her favor.”  Her brother handed the papers off to his husband, who promptly locked them in their little safe.  “I can’t ever thank you enough, Ty.  She would have killed me, if she’d found me in her rooms again.”

“She thought she knew who I was,” Ty admitted.  “Said she’d expected me.  But I didn’t give it away.  Channeled a Denerim street rat.”

Her brother nodded, “Good choice.  She’ll suspect a Fereldan to be us, but the King was there, too, so she can’t be sure.” He tapped the back of the chair in front of him, “With the proof in hand, she’s all but lost.  I’ll show the letters around tomorrow when we make our visits, and her reputation will be in ruins.”  He finally sat, and Aldin came around to rub his shoulders.  He covered the harpist's hands with one of his.

“I’ll be going then,” Tyra stood, “before you two make it gross.  Gotta place I can change?”

“You speak like that entirely too well,” her brother noted.  “I hope you don’t slip in Ostwick.”

She laughed, “In Ostwick I’m the Lady Trevelyan.  They’d never suspect.”

The two siblings exchanged understanding grins.  “Take care, Sis.”

“Don’t let him stay up all night, Aldin.”  She paused at the door, “And Ian… I’m glad I could help.”


	29. Malicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is it... the last one. Had some issues, so had to put off posting until today.

It was the second time Tyra had found herself infiltrating Madame de Fer’s rooms.  This time, however, they were less opulent, if just as book-filled.  She’d heard that her late lover’s children had finally removed her from her wing in their mansion as well as her townhouse in Val Royeaux, and that the former Grand Enchanter – with no backing at the Circle – had been forced to limit herself to a simple house, far outside of the stylish center of town.

She might have had something to do with that.  The Madame would subtly threaten a high ranking member of the Circle, and somehow the lady would end up with her access to the library withdrawn.

A libertarian representative disappeared, only to reappear in the Mirroire, frostbite still apparent on her cheeks and hands?  Suddenly Bastien’s children needed her wing in the mansion vacated to conduct ‘repairs’.

One of the better teachers for the college reported that Madame had been showing up to her classes for the youngest emerging mages and filling their heads with fear of their own talents?  Suddenly the Madame found herself in dire financial straits - unable to continue the social life she was accustomed to leading.

One incident at a time had Tyra slowly dismantling the Enchanter’s house of cards - tit for tat, retribution as her continued interference in Circle matters had become apparent. Soon she only had Celene’s fond memories of her time at Court to draw upon.  The notorious Madame was hanging by a thread, socially and financially.

And that’s why Tyra was here.

Not to offer support – though the woman had had the audacity to write to her mother, mentioning certain favors that had occurred during the Inquisition.  Her mother’s response had been profane and thorough in private, the letter polite and discouraging.

No, Tyra was there to snip that final thread, watch her dangle, and fall.

She was in her bardic attire, lurker leathers skin tight against the muscles she’d built through years of training.  She even wore her mask.

But this time, she aimed to be caught.

She lounged in the wing-backed chair and waited for the lady to come home.  The ping on her ward went off, at last, but she didn’t react, merely leaned forward like her mother judging the world, legs spread wide.  “Madame.”

“You again.”  The woman’s disgust didn’t hide the shaking of her hands.  “Haven’t you done enough?”

“No.”  She smiled, aware of the beauty of her smile under the curve of her simple mask.  “I haven’t.”

“You malicious little worm,” the woman sneered.

“Not inaccurate,” Tyra agreed willingly enough.  “I’m here to guarantee that you never interfere with Circle matters again.”

“You’re not even a member.”  The woman’s eyebrow raised regally.  “And whatever happened to your accent, my dear?  Isn’t that a bit sloppy?”

“We don’t need pretense between us,” Tyra smirked like her father, and pulled the ribbon on her mask.  The confirmation of her parentage stamped her features like a birth certificate.  “Do we?”

“You have the upper hand,” the woman admitted, slowly.  “What do you want?”

“I want you to leave Val Royeaux.  I want you to retire, to the country.”  Tyra handed off a letter from the Marquess of the Dales.  “This is a request from Marquess Briala to remove yourself from the Empress’ property in favor of an offer of a small house in a village.  Suitable, for someone of your age.  Alternatively, the Chantry is willing to hear your vows, and has a place in a nunnery for you.  Contemplation, they say, is good for the soul.”

“You want me to…” the woman’s face was ashen around her nose and mouth – her lips pale under her immaculate makeup.  “I refuse.”  She stepped forward, as if she was going to cast, but her hands fell back when Tyra’s barrier went up.  “You can’t do this to me!  I have friends, patrons!”

“Not any longer.”  The woman glared at her.  “If you refuse, then you will be homeless,” Tyra shrugged.  “My parents, and brother, went this far out of the goodness of their heart, Madame.  They have nothing left to offer.”

She turned her back on Tyra – a dangerous thing to do, when your visitor was a bard.  Tyra had to remind herself that Lady Trevelyan would never strike from behind.  Not after being unmasked.  “I… see.”

“If I were you, I’d take the Chantry,” Tyra mused.  “A small house can be taken away, just as easily as your other properties.  But it’s harder to kick out a Sister.  Excommunication is a tricky thing - and the Chantry prefers to hold on to its own.  There, you’ll have a bed, and food, and a place to study for as long as you live.  You do love your books.”

The clatter of the decanter against the wine glass was loud in the silence.  Vivienne didn’t lift her glass or reply for a long time.  Her voice seemed loud, when she murmured, turning back, as if remembering she wasn’t alone, “Yes, that’s… probably best.”

“Excellent.  I’ll inform the Most Holy of your intentions.”  Tyra curtseyed elegantly, as if she were wearing silk and lace instead of lurker skins.  “Always a pleasure, Madame.”

“Likewise,” her voice rattled like her hands, the wine sloshing against the rim of the glass.  Three drops hit her white gown.  “I will not… forget this kindness.”

“Always the lady.” Tyra inclined her head.

“You would have made a wonderful apprentice.”  The woman took a too-deep sip of wine.  “You could have ruled Orlais, with your talents.”

“Shame I already had a mentor, then.”

“Who?”

Tyra merely turned and left, without saying another word.

She was nothing if not the product of her opportunities.  And now, she could go home.


End file.
